


On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis

by Gildedmuse



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Anal Play, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Drinking, First Time, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 09:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18797194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedmuse/pseuds/Gildedmuse
Summary: Lots of people know they're friends, of course, but no one really thinks of all the sex that when into that.





	1. First Time & Blow Jobs

**Author's Note:**

> [Posted to LJ in 2006]

Five hours. Mark has to squint through the darkness until the red numbers on his alarm clock become anything more than a glaring blur, watching the numbers flicker, and suddenly it's three A.M. In five hours he has to get up, get ready, and bike to Kyle's house so that his parents can drive them up to the city for Kyle's birthday. More than anything right now, Mark wants to get some rest. He closes his eyes, and all he can concentrate on is the music blasting from downstairs. In his head Mark keeps chanting that if he gets to sleep now he can still get five hours sleep. If Cindy's friends would all leave, or if mom and dad would come home  visiting aunt Florence early, Mark could still get those five hours.

 

He's still trying to force himself into a five-hour coma when he hears his door open, the graduation party noise becoming clearer for a second before it's again muffled. Someone else looking for the bathroom he figured, but then there is more noise. The sound of someone stumbling, and a loud protest from his small twin bed as the mattress beside him dips.

 

Mark's eyes fly open again in an almost panic as he waits for someone to hit him or throw up on him. Squinting through the darkness at the lump on his bed, he waits for the violence or the drunken behavior. He waits and waits and waits, and after a while there is the soft sound of snoring. Slowly and carefully so he doesn't wake the guy, Mark reaches across the body and grabs his glasses from the nightstand. It's still dark, but there is enough light from the street lamp and under his door that he can make out the almost ethereal white curls of hair, down to pitch black and hollow-looking eyes as the shadowed features of the boy next to him become sharper. Bleach and make up, Mark thinks as he adjusts his glasses, almost hovering over the sleeping figure. He knows this guy. Roger, Cindy's friend's sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-band from the city, sprawled out next to him. Mark has seen him play once before at his kind-of-not-really girlfriend's sister's party.

 

He's never seen Roger like this, though, shirtless with his jeans undone just enough that even in the soft glow coming from outside the window Mark can make out the trail of hair that leads down into his boxers. His stomach flutters, like when Sasha laid her head on his lap that time they were watching movies at that party.

 

Mark unconsciously licks his lips, scooting back until he's hit the wall. He's never actually been this close to a half naked guy. Well, locker rooms don't count. Neither do sleepovers with his best friend, Kyle, because that is different. Kyle looks nothing like Roger. Roger is eighteen and in a band. Roger is bohemian, from the city and everything. Roger makes Mark's stomach jump in this weird way, and all he's doing is snoring.

 

One moment, Mark is staring at Roger and wondering what to do about sharing his bed, and the next the clock flickers to 3:49 and Roger is looking over at him. The rocker's eyes are green, green, green, like he has no pupil at all. He squints through the dark at Mark, who had tried jumping back again and bumped his head into the window when he realizes Roger is awake. "Who are you?" His voice sounds like he's been singing all-night, raw and hoarse. Mark's mind makes the jump from singing to sex pretty easily. He's a teenage boy, and he could make the jump from math to sex. Roger's voice isn't really helping, though.

 

"Uh... Mark," he says, running a hand through his hair and not looking at Roger as he scratches at his stomach. "You fell into my bed."

 

The older boy breaks out this horrible, beautiful grin. "Do you mind?" He asks, like he already knows Mark doesn't. So Mark just shakes his head and hugs a pillow closer, slipping it between them like it can protect him from Roger. He isn't even sure what he wants to protect himself against.

 

Roger yawns, stretching out until his hands are flopping over the shield/pillow Mark has set up. Then he's rolling on his side, propping his head up enough that he can see Mark over the waves of blankets between them. "You look familiar."

 

"Well, it's my house." Mark isn't sure Roger is entirely in his right mind. Mark isn't some innocent little sophomore. He's tried alcohol and pot, and he knows what people are like high and drunk. That isn't what it is, he thinks, but he can tell there is something. "And my bed."

 

"That doesn't matter," Roger says, and Mark gets the impression it really doesn't matter to the older boy that he just collapsed into some random guy's bed. "I mean, I think I've seen you somewhere."

 

Mark knows what he meant, but he feels a bit like a suburbanite loser telling Roger where he'd seen him. He shrugs, trying to seem like having Roger fall down into his bed is not a strange happening. "I've been to a few parties." Most of those being with Scarsdale Senior High's impromptu film club, which consisted mainly of him, Sasha, Vince, Kyle and sometimes Lizzy when she wasn't doing chess or Homes for Humanity, and none of which involved anyone like Roger.

 

Roger yawns and starts to stretch out. Feline is the word that comes to Mark's head. Something tough and dangerous, but sleek and poised as well. That's how Roger looks with his hands twisted up above his head. "So you're from around here?"

 

"No," Mark says before he can hold back his tongue. "I live in LA as a professional film executive. I just like flying home to sleep in Scarsdale every night."

 

Roger nods, and Mark isn't sure if he caught the sarcasm or is even listening. He just keeps stretching out and that hand that had been idly scratching at his stomach drops lower. Of course Mark catches the flicker of motion out of the corner of his glasses and has to turn to stare. There is a slight pause in the finger's downward movement and if Mark weren't so busy watching Roger's hand he would have seen the rock star smirk before slipping his hand under the waistline of his boxers.

 

Mark still doesn't look away. Not until there is a low, deep laughter ringing in his ear that pulls his eyes to Roger's. "You're staring."

 

Mark meets Roger's eyes, trying to figure out if he's going to get the shit beat out of him. It's never happened to him, but it has happened to Vince. He knows guys don't stare at other guys, at least not in Scarsdale. He's seen movies where it happens, though, and movies where people in the city can spend all their time working on paintings or music or film, and he wants to believe that he can go to New York and things will be like that. "Yeah," he says after a long pause, and if Roger is going to beat him up he'll do it no matter what Mark says.

 

The rock star rolls to his side, amused and not violent at all. "You always stare at guys?"

 

"Only the ones that fall half naked into my bed," Mark says, shrugging it off like this is all so causal for him. It's not the first time he's found a guy attractive. It's just hormones, he figures and he read in a book somewhere that guys experiences this sort of thing all the time. Sasha even admitted to him that she got that feeling around girls occasionally. Besides, Mark still likes girls. He still got a hard on from tango lessons with Nanette, and that had nothing to do with some love of dancing.

 

"Well, you're lucky tonight," Roger purrs, and Mark is back to that feline imagery. Beautiful but dangerous, his mind warns, but his body isn't really listening. Especially not when he realizes how close Roger is and how Mark is already against the wall with nowhere else to go. When had he gotten himself trapped in a corner?

 

Roger's hand is on his hip, pulling him away from the wall and pressing him flat on his back. Mark wants to say something to help break the tense silence he feels that apparently Roger hasn't noticed yet, because he's leaning forward to kiss Mark. Lips pressed together and Mark's eyes go wide. He should stop him, he should stop him, he shouldn't stop him because Roger is kissing him and it feels really good.

 

Kissing Roger isn't like kissing Sasha. For one thing, he doesn't taste like lip-gloss. His lips are chapped, too, rougher and they move against Mark more aggressively. Mark shivers when Roger's licks along his lips, opening his mouth for the kiss and Roger takes without ever stopping. Pinned below the rock star, Mark feels totally inadequate. What is he supposed to do with his tongue? How did Roger do that? Shit, when is the last time he brushed his teeth? It really doesn't matter, because Roger is trying to posses his mouth and Mark just starts kissing him back, messy and desperate but not worrying about that right now. Hard to think around the blood that is pumping through his ears and quickly traveling lower.

 

Roger's hands, large and rough, are running down Mark's bare chest. He pulls back from the kiss, and Mark starts to make some excuse for why he never really kissed back properly and why there is a bit of drool running down Roger's chin but before he can say anything Roger is nipping at his lip, teeth scrapping across the skin and his callused fingers brush over Mark's nipples and that feels good. Mark moans as he arches towards Roger's hands. He can feel the older boy smirk as he lets go of his lip and starts placing hot, open mouthed kisses along his jaw.

 

Mark closes his eyes, lips trembling slightly as he takes in the sensation. Rough hands sliding back down his chest, stroking at his stomach. Teeth and lips and tongue are against his ear and with another moan Mark is leaning up against Roger's mouth. Roger's tongue thrusts against his ear and a palm kneads him through his briefs and any shred of rational thought is overrun by his hormones.

 

Just as Mark is giving in, Roger pulls back, leaving him whimpering and cold. He sits up in a flash, wanting to know what he did wrong. "Shit!" His head collides with Roger's chin, and he pulls back, wincing and rubbing at his head. Worse, Roger sits up, hand running across his jaw. "Sorry!" Mark says, and what a way to impress the guy. Giving him a concussion.

 

Roger lays a hand on Mark's chest, pushing him back. "It's cool. Just stay there, okay?" Nodding eagerly, Mark does as told. Roger smiles at him before hooking his fingers through the waistband of Mark's underwear, his other hand digging through his pocket and maybe Mark shouldn't have said yes so quickly. As Roger fishes through his pocket his jeans start to slip down his hips, the erection in his boxers becoming more and more obvious. Mark should be more nervous, lying in a bed with a boy at least two years older than him and who knows how much more experienced.

 

He would be, too, if he weren't hot and hard and busy helping Roger by wiggling and kicking off his briefs, unable to really tear his eyes off of the line of hair that disappears into Roger's snug-looking boxers.

 

Mark looks up when he hears a faint tearing and catches sight of that beautiful grin again. Roger drops between Mark's legs and oh God, oh God, oh God. Those lips are closing around the head of his cock. Chapped and rough, tight around him as a tongue slides over the tip. And before he can arch into that mouth a hand closes around his waist, holding him back as Roger swallows him down and fuck, he didn't even know someone could do that but it feels better than his hand ever did. Behind his eyelids, Mark sees white spots like stars. His fingers curl into the sheets, nails going through the thin material as he tries to ground himself even as the world starts to spin. His entire world is now the tongue wrapping around him and teeth scrapping along lightly as Roger moves his mouth up and down. Thank God for the music downstairs because Mark doesn't want his sister hearing the sounds he's making, desperate and choked back when he can't quite remember how to breathe.

 

In moments he's panting and whimpering and close and how did he go so long without this, and then there is something slick and cold pressing up against him. Mark yelps, tearing himself away from Roger's mouth and hitting the headboard as he scrambling up the bed. "What the hell?"

 

Roger looks like a predator in the low light, smiling up at Mark with this dangerous twist of his lips. He strokes along Mark's leg softly, fingers brushing along his inner thigh and even while freaking out Mark shivers from that touch. "It's okay," he purrs, green eyes glowing with what looks to Mark like pure sexual energy, the condom stretched around his fingers gleaming in the low light. "Haven't you ever done this before?"

 

"I'm not a virgin," Mark says before Roger can get the idea. He and Sasha did have sex that once. She said it hurt, though, and it had been awkward and messy and embarrassing, and after that they stuck to the less confusing things. "I just..."

 

Roger is still smiling at him, slowly pulling and Mark just lets Roger lie him back down. He knows what's happening, and it makes his stomach twist with nerves but the way Roger is grinning, the way his hand strokes Mark's thigh, he doesn't have much of a choice but to follow. "It'll be fine," Roger promises in that low, soft voice as he nuzzles up to Mark's cock. His nose brushes the skin and Mark gasps, hips buckling. The slick latex is pressing against him again, cold and wet on his overheated skin. "Relax," Roger murmurs, a sound that rumbles through his lips and into Mark's cock.

 

He tries to obey and force his body to calm down as a finger slowly presses into him. Just concentrate on Roger, his hand on Mark's thigh, Roger's lips brushing against his stomach, moving lower with open mouth kisses until, "Fuck," Mark gasps sharply as those lips are back around him. Unfair, his mind screams but he doesn't listen because Roger's mouth is wet and hot and tight as he takes Mark in. Pinned back to the bed he can't do anything but writhe and squirm, moaning quietly and hoping Roger won't pull away this time.

 

He tries not to let Roger's finger, now fingers and the stretch hurts a little, but he tries not to let it freak him out. He doesn't care what Roger does as long as his mouth stays tight around him just like that, and fuck, he can't keep still on the bed for fear that the pressure building up inside him will snap, and he doesn't want to come yet or Roger might stop and the way his tongue is curled around Mark is amazing so if he would please, please not stop. Mark keeps moving, twisting back and around in Roger's mouth until his fingers are pressed inside Mark and, "Fuck!"

 

He screams it, toes curling into the sheets as he bucks off the bed, nearly kneeing Roger in the face and not even caring because, oh, fuck, he needs more of that. He whimpers, panting and tensing, and he can still feel the ghost of Roger's fingers pressed up inside of him, pushing into some spot that shots this heat right up his body. Between that and Roger's mouth, he's amazed he is still breathing at all, and how come no one ever told him about that before?

 

Roger smirks, pushing Mark's hips back against the bed. "Good?" He asks, and Mark can't say anything. Just swallows and tries to stop shuddering at the small jolts still traveling through his body. He hasn't even recovered and, God, Roger is doing it again, rough fingers rubbing up inside him. Mark bites on his lips, trying to force back sounds he didn't even know he could make, trying not to push back against Roger's hand because the slight ache is still there but who cares anymore, so long as it feels like that? It's almost too much, the way every touch sends another twist of pleasure-heat-need twisting around in him.

 

Between his legs, Roger is still wearing a wicked smile and Mark really wants to kiss him again or have those lips back around him or - Fuck, he has to stop doing that. Whimpering, Mark shoots back off the bed, this time he does push back and Roger's fingers press deeper into him. It's starting to be less of an ache and more of a stretch, and the second Mark thinks that, Roger grabs something and there is more of that cold, slick liquid and a third finger twists up against him. Mark whines, closing his eyes and this is weird. He shouldn't be enjoying this because fingers do not - "Mm... More, more," Mark moans, loosing that last train of thought because Roger is doing that thing again, rubbing his fingers up against that spot as he stretches Mark out.

 

Mark starts squirming again, his body moving on its own as Roger thrusts his fingers up inside him. With his eyes closed, he can only hear Roger moving on the bed, and that doesn't matter because his fingers press there again and Mark is shouting, body twitching. "Shit!" Mark's eyes fly open at the loud crack of his knee connecting with Roger's jaw.

 

"Sorry!" He says, trying to sit up and shouting when Roger's fingers bend weirdly inside him. Not pleasurable at all. Roger pulls his hand away, rubbing his jaw with his fingers not bunched in a condom. "Are you okay?" Mark asks, feeling like even more of a complete idiot then he had the first time he accidentally hit Roger.

 

"It's still okay," Roger says, shaking his head before leaning in and kissing Mark again. Mark decides it's better not to push or bring up the bruise on Roger's cheek. Instead he rolls his tongue around Roger's, scooting closer so he can feel the body heat pouring off the older boy. He's too worked up by now to worry too long about anything.

 

Roger pulls back from the kiss, looking down as he pulls off his jeans and pulls anther condom from his pocket. Mark eyes it nervously as he slips it over his cock, then turns back to Mark. He knows what this means and he should stop now, but he isn't because he really wants Roger by now, and he knows it's all hormones but those hormones are much more powerful than any other line of reasoning.

 

"Turn around," Roger tells him. Mark nods and does, trying to get comfortable, but no matter what, his knees are digging into the hard wooden frame of his bed, and the headrest isn't easy to hold onto, and he is shaking. He closes his eyes and tries to stop the last one before Roger wraps his arms around Mark's waist, cock pressed up to his back, and that only makes it worse. Roger doesn't seem to mind. He kisses the back of Mark's neck, and Mark can feel the wet latex pressing up to him like his fingers had been.

 

"Is this going to hurt?" he asks after swallowing hard, trying to calm his nerves or put out the fire that is burning in his gut, coiled tight enough that he knows the next time Roger touches him he won't be able to stop himself.

 

"Don't worry," Roger purrs, and really his voice is anything but comforting. Dark and powerful and enough to make Mark shiver, but not really comforting. "Just relax."

 

Roger starts moving into him, and it doesn't hurt as much as Mark thought it would be he still has to bite back a whimper, nails digging into his headboard as Roger thrusts up into him. A hand curls around his cock, dragging a thumb from the tip to the base, and Mark just has to think about how good that feels, moaning as Roger starts stroking him, squeezing him tight, moving inside him and "God, yes..." Mark's head falls against his chest, whimpering because it hurts, but Roger is rocking up into that spot every time he moves. Mark swears it shouldn't feel that good. Nothing should, but every time Roger hits it and twists his hand, Mark is nearly screaming, rolling his hips back against Roger's rough palm with every move, trembling and moaning and probably making a fool of himself but as long as Roger never stops he doesn't care.

 

He comes within minutes, keeping himself from making any noise. His body feels like it's melting, boneless and exhausted and he wants to collapse, but Roger is holding him up and it takes him a while more to finish. When he does, he lets Mark drop to the mattress, breathless and so out of it that he doesn't even hear Roger cursing up a storm when he falls off the bed, trying to pull on his pants, or Cindy's surprised yelp when she opens the door. He finally manages to pass out, sleeping so deeply that a train running through his room or his sister screaming at Amanda's sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-band for touching her little brother wouldn't wake him.

 

He sleeps through his alarm and misses that trip to the city with all his friends. Mark spends the day in bed.

 

*

 

Maybe his mom had been right about New York City, and within the day Mark will have been beaten, mugged, raped, shot, and then beaten some more until he finally dropped dead on the corner where people could walk by and kick at his body. This sounds more appealing than having to go home and admit to his parents that he got kicked out of Brown after less than a year.

 

Now that he thinks about it, all of that sounds more appealing than staying at Brown for another year, too.

 

Mark, nineteen and hopeful and artistic and totally lost, stood at the bus station with absolutely no idea what to do next. He knew what he couldn't do, though. He knew he couldn't go home, because that would mean that his dad had been right and also he couldn't face his mom knowing how disappointed she would be. He couldn't call anyone because he didn't know anyone in the city, and he definitely didn't know anyone willing to come and pick him up and give him a place to stay. He couldn't get a bite to eat, even though his stomach had been annoying everyone on the bus, because he didn't have any money.

 

There is a whole lot he cannot do and not a lot he can, Mark realizes as he stands there in the crowd of people, wondering why no one really has a friendly face. So he does what he always does when he's lost and confused and the weight of his own stupid decision is starting to set in on him. He picks up his camera and films.

 

Having no idea what he's looking for or where he's going, Mark just starts walking with his camera aimed at the city. He unconsciously starts narrating after a while, shooting any scene he finds interesting and whispering with his camera. It's comforting, like he isn't stuck in the city alone and with no money but instead he's just filming a few shots, and any time he wants he could be back on the bus and to Brown University where he can miserably sit through more classes he doesn't care about.

 

He walks down the streets, people jostling him around at every turn and cars not seeming to care that he's a pedestrian and shouldn't be charged at. He might have been frightened, but the camera has a way of filtering things out so that all Mark sees is the beautiful, scene-worthy city.

 

So much better than being at Brown, he keeps telling himself, because if he doesn't, he's afraid he'll turn around and head home with his tail between his legs. It isn't going to happen. He's wanted to live in New York since he was nine and his mom took him up to see some Broadway musical about cats. It was boring, or at least was to a nine year old boy, but Mark remembers passing by a film crew as they shot down the street. That was awesome. That's what he is looking for.

 

Pan across the walls of the city as someone bumps into him, twisting his frame. Mark frowns at the disturbance, starts to twist back around when a picture falls into frame. He looks up at the poster slapped haphazardly across the wall. Black and green with just enough yell that the boy's hair looks like it is glow in the dark white. Mark takes a step closer, eyes scanning over the familiar face of the rock star. The Well Hungarians is what the poster says. Mark smiles, snorting softly at that. March 4th at 9:00, presented by CBGBs.

 

Of all the things Mark needs to be doing in the city, looking up his sister's friend's ex-sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-band that he slept with one night isn't one of them. Roger, that is his name, did enough damage last time he fell into Mark's bed, leaving him confused for years. It's been three years, and Mark knows that Roger won't remember him and it's not like he's really been thinking about the rock star. Not for a while now.

 

He tears the poster off the wall, tucking his camera under his arm as he swings around and back into the crowd, determined to find CBGBs before nine tonight.

 

*

 

The fact that Mark actually finds the club before midnight is probably a miracle. Even more amazing is he makes it in before Roger's band has set up, and he even manages to use the fake ID that Benny got him to buy a beer, although he thinks that might have something to do with the disinterest of the bartender who hardly even glanced at him before handing him a bottle. It tastes disgusting, but Mark doesn't care. He's dropped out of school, run away to New York, is in a club to watch a rock band with a lead singer he slept with, and he feels like getting drunk. Being rebellious. Being anyone but the cute little Jewish boy who volunteered at the JCC with his mom.

 

He takes a few more sips of the beer and decides that while he wants to be rebellious, he doesn't want to be sick. Who can actually drink that stuff? It tastes worse than that time Cindy made a cake and accidentally used salt instead of sugar.

 

The house lights dim slightly and Mark's attention goes from the beer to the stage just as he steps out. Mark never harbored any delusions about Roger. He knew the older boy had just been looking for a way to get off and Mark happened to be next to him in bed. Still, that knowledge never stopped him from spending most of the next few months jerking off with Roger in his mind. Even now, if he lets his mind drift while he's in the shower, it will still pick up pictures of the older boy.

 

Nothing, really, compared to seeing Roger like this. He glows under the bad lighting like a god walking out before his people, his grin making him border on childish but still strangely wicked. Mark holds up his camera, making sure he captures this moment because on stage Roger looks like he could conquer the world.

 

"He's gorgeous, isn't he?" Mark doesn't look up when he hears the soft voice near his ear, figuring it is meant for someone other than him. He nearly jumps when the warm body nuzzles up against him. He swings around, grabbing his camera protectively as he spins he finds a girl with dancing brown eyes and wild curls leaning into him.

 

"Err..." Is she flirting with him? Mark isn't use to that. He hung out with a very small group in high school, and it turned out that Sasha was a lesbian and the other two were boys. He hasn't had much experience with girls. Not enough to tell if they're flirting with him. She is leaning awfully close, and every time Mark tries to back off, she seems to get closer. "You a fan?"

 

"Not exactly," Mark admits. It's been three years since he's seen Roger play, and it's hard to listen to his new music when this girl is almost plastered to him, giggling and Mark can smell the alcohol on her breath. It actually calms him a little. If she's drunk, she's not really interested, which means Mark doesn't have to impress her.

 

The girl takes his hand, and Mark stumbles a bit but doesn't pull back. She is really pretty, he thinks in this haze of confusion. She has really nice... eyes. Eyes, look at her eyes. Mark looks back at her eyes. A nice smile, like Roger's only less bright and more follow-after-me. "You want to meet him?" She asks, and Mark should be finding somewhere to sleep tonight instead of nodding and letting the beautiful siren of a girl lead him away from the bar and to who knows where.

 

"You're cute," she giggles, holding something up to this doorman, and he lets them through without question. The backroom smells like equipment and beer. It's dark compared to the flashy lights up front, but the girl seems to know where she's going. She tugs Mark along like she has him on a leash, always smiling. "What about me?"

 

"Umm..." Fuck, did Mark miss something? He frowns a bit, and she laughs so he supposes that is good enough.

 

"I'm April," she says, finally stopping and spinning on her heels she pats the cushions of a worn down couch and Mark obediently takes a seat.

 

"Mark," he says, watching as April picks up a purse, the contents spilling to the floor. "Here, let me help," Mark says, getting to his knees and helping her gathering her make up, some loose change, a bag of power and needle a spoon and a candle. Mark frowns, thinking over it for a while until the scene clicks in his mind. He knows this, and yeah sure it's mostly from gritty indie films but that doesn't mean he doesn't know what it is she is about to do.

 

April smiles, thanking Mark as she stands up again. "I'll be right back. You can just wait here," she instructions before giving him a cute little wave and disappearing into a bathroom. Mark watches her go, feeling even more unsure about being here. Drinking is one thing, but she's back there shooting up heroin and maybe he should leave. No, Mark thinks, sitting back on the old couch and looking around the small back stage area at all the instruments and amps and random thing piled around him. He isn't going to leave. He isn't going to be a judgmental asshole like his father. He is open-minded. Drugs aren't as bad as everyone thinks they are. People are free to make their own choices.

 

Mark decides to stay and wait for April. He wants new experiences? He wants to live outside of suburbia? Well, this would be it.

 

April comes out of the bathroom, smile a little less dangerous now as she tumbles down onto the couch. "Hello," she says, head landing in Mark's lap with a soft thud.

 

"Oh..." Mark says, nearly jumping as she makes this small sound and nuzzles into his leg. Should her mouth by that close to him? "Err.... Umm... Hey." Yeah, this is going just perfectly. He stares down at April, who seems content to just lie there cuddling against his lap for now.

 

They stay like that, with Mark feeling awkward and April almost drifting off, until the music stops. Mark hears the sound cut off and Roger saying goodbye to the crowd. He starts to nudge April, trying to wake her or at least push her away from his crotch. This isn't how he wants Roger to see him, with a girl who looks drugged on his lap and drooling onto his jeans. "Hey, April... Get up."

 

April gives a small moan, barely moving away from Mark. The band is heading in, putting their instruments away and there is Roger, glowing with sweat and eye makeup running slightly, panting and smiling and of course Mark's mind goes right to sex. He hasn't gotten any better at that since he was sixteen.

 

"Roger!" April finally moves off her lap, throwing herself into the rock star's arms. Roger barely has time to put up his guitar before catching her, laughing as she wraps her thin frame around his. They fall back onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, mouths pressed together and small sounds escaping between their lips. Mark shifts away from them, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. It's like he's not even here. He shouldn't even be here.

 

Slowly the groping and kissing winds down. April pulls back, her lip still caught in Roger's mouth. Mark feels like he's seeing something he shouldn't. Like catching sight of a friend's home porn video. From the way everyone else moves around the couple like it's nothing, he's guessing this is tame. It still feels weird to him to be sitting so close to them when they're making out, Roger's hands up her shirt, April grinding down against his tight jeans that hide nothing. "Roger," she says softly as he finally pulls her mouth away from his. "This is Mark."

 

Roger flashes him a bright smile, green eyes dark and glowing in the low light. Mark's smile is weak, still feeling a bit unsure of himself and the situation. He wishes he could back away, get a feel for what is happening and then come back into the scene with an audience perspective. He really doesn't have time for that, though, even with his camera on hand. April nuzzles into Roger's neck, whispering words Mark can't hear as the next band scrambles to get set up and ready.

 

"We will," Roger answers to whatever April says. He stands up with her still in his lap, laughing when she squeals and wraps herself closer, leaving Mark there on the couch. He hadn't expected Roger to remember him, but he'd expected something more than to be left sitting backstage while he and his girlfriend go off.

 

Mark doesn't even get a chance to consider what to do next when a rough hand reaches for him, curling in his shirt and pulling him up. "Come on," Roger says as he hauls Mark to his feet. He stumbles a bit, steadying himself on Roger's shoulder, but he manages to make it up in one piece. Roger pats him on the shoulder, which doesn't help with Mark's balance problem. "You ready?"

 

"Ready?" Mark looks up, glancing between April, who is leaning up against Roger's chest with a lazy smile, to the rock star with his face-splitting grin. No, he isn't ready. His mom had been right. He's too young to be out on his own like this. No, wait. Mark isn't going to go back there. He isn't going to give up. New York indie filmmakers do not live with their parents. "Yeah, sure."

 

Roger smiles, so it's worth it that Mark feels his good conscious screaming at him. Also, April is moving away from Roger, wrapping an arm around Mark and pressing up against him. That's helping to stifle those annoying thoughts as well. "Come on," she says, grinning wickedly again as she pulls on Mark's sleeve. Really, he doesn't have much of a choice but to follow them as the two practically drag him along after them.

 

It doesn't take Mark long to figure out what they're dragging him along for. Not that his mind hadn't already been racing in that direction, but when April's hand snakes into his corduroys, fingers ghosting along his boxers and, yes, Roger's lips brushing against his ear as he pushes Mark into some building, that really makes their point. Mark moans, a loud sound that echoes of the walls of the broken down building, as April and Roger continue touching him and each other, slowly making their way up the stairs.

 

There isn't any real time to look around the apartment April and Roger shove him into, and he really could care less where they take him so long as no one stops. He drops his bag as the door closes, and then it's starting again. The confusion is still swirling around in his head, but April's lips against his don't give it much room to bother him. Roger's strong arms around him, pressing up against his back and into April. It's an overload of his senses.

 

Rough fingers curl around his, leading Mark's hand up April's soft stomach, cupping her breast through the flimsy material of her bra. April moans into Mark's mouth, tongue sliding playfully against his and sighing softly. Callused fingers slide down his stomach, down and down and, "God," Mark moans, head falling back against Roger's shoulder as his hips arch up. With a small whimper he begins grinding into Roger's hand, and thank God he's a little more experienced than last time because he's pretty sure if he were sixteen still this would be it for him.

 

April pulls away and Mark can barely open his eyes to watch her stumble backwards. Roger's hand is much more distracting, hard fingers wrapping around him as rubbing against him. "Come to bed," April purrs, clumsily taking off her shirt before heading back into the bedroom.

 

Mark isn't even sure he would follow her, or even move at all except Roger pulls away. Whimpering, he follows after the rock star, nearly tripping over his pants in the process. Fuck grace. Mark is way past caring how he looks so long as he isn't kicked out. In his rush to get back to Roger and April and the contact, he nearly runs into the rock star. Catching himself on the bedroom door, he looks around Roger to see why he's stopped.

 

April is sprawled out over the bed, heels still on, chest moving only slightly. "Is she okay?" Mark asks after a moment and she still hasn't done anything.

 

"Yeah." Roger pulls back, closing the door and shutting April inside. Mark catches a flash of something other than lust, happiness, cocky rock star confidence, blinding ecstasy. Before Mark has time to analyze, Roger is scooping him into his arms. "You want to stop."

 

Mark should really be careful about what he is doing with this guy. "No." Fucking hormones. Better not to think about it or risk talking about it, Mark decides as Roger's lips cover his and without question Mark is wrapping his arms around Roger's shoulders, rubbing up against him and mewling into the rough kiss. He wants to shut down and not think about what he's doing; not just with Roger but with his whole life.

 

Any thoughts he is still having get cut off when Roger slams him down into the couch. "Hey!" Mark snaps, arching up and rubbing his back where the wooden frame of the under-stuffed couch had dug into his skin.

 

"You okay?" Roger asks, peeling off his shirt and then hooking fingers through his jeans and he isn't even wearing underwear, Mark can see the lines of his hips meeting as the jeans slowly drift down his skin. He swallows hard, and even though he would swear that he never had a crush on Roger, the way his heart beat picks up, well, if it were anyone else here with him now he wouldn't be quiet this breathless.

 

"Yeah," Mark forces his eyes back to Roger's face, not wanting to be caught staring. Roger smirks, lips curling up just enough that Mark knows he had been caught. Well, okay. As long as he still doesn't stop, Mark doesn't care.

 

The jeans are gone and Roger straddles his hips, still smirking even when he presses their lips together in a hungry kiss, and thank God he isn't stopping.

 

Mark runs his hands down Roger's back, over the heated skin of the rock star. He lifts his hips as Roger tears off his jeans and - Oh, fuck.... Hard fingers wrapping around him. Mark moans, hips bucking from the bed and grinding against the palm. He loves Roger's hands, and he's so lost in that feeling that he doesn't notice how Roger slicks up his hand until a finger is pressing up against him. Mark yelps, eyes opening, as he tries to back up into the couch. Roger looks down at him, smiling. "Relax," he tells him, teasing Mark's entrance. Roger's hand wraps around his erection, rough like his kisses, callused from guitar playing and tight around Mark. He cries out, arching up into Roger's hand as the finger presses inside him.

 

He's done this since back then, of course, but Roger still makes him feel like he's sixteen and uncertain. Except right now, when Roger is slowly thrusting his fingers up into him, hand tight around Mark's cock and lips brushing against his collarbone. Right now, Mark doesn't feel uncertain at all. He feels heat coiling up inside him, body humming with the contact as he tries to rock between both of Roger's hands. Teeth sink into his skin, sucking and marking and he's moaning, losing the rhythm of his hips and whimpering as Roger bites at his collar.

 

Hard fingers twisting inside of him, curling and - "Fuck, yes!" Mark tightens around Roger's fingers, hips bucking as he rubs against that spot that sends Mark reeling. With small sounds he tries to keep down, he pushes back against Roger, legs hooking around his waist as he forces Roger in deeper.

 

Roger's hand slows as he looks up. "You're loud," he observes, and right now isn't the time for talking, Mark thinks. Right now Roger has his fingers up inside him, and how can he be talking when that is clearly not what Mark wants?

 

"Yeah, well." He can't seem to stops gasping for air or rocking up into Roger's hand, even when it's still. "Sorry." If Roger doesn't start moving again, he is going to do it himself because right now he needs this so bad there is an ache spreading through his body.

 

Smiling, Roger nips at his jaw again, hand tightening and, yes, that is what Mark needs. He moans, head falling back against the couch with a slight thump. "Don't hold back." Roger twists his fingers up into Mark, hard rough thrusts and, fuck, how is he supposed to hold back? Especially with Roger trailing hot kisses down his chest and - fuck, licking at the head of Mark's cock.

 

"More," Mark shouts, hands tangling in the bleached out hair. He whimpers, unable to stop withering around on the couch as Roger's fingers fill him and now his lips closing around him. Sensation after sensation, leaving Mark bucking up into him mouth and back against his fingers. Not yet, he begs himself because he can feel the way his body starts to tense as Roger's tongue, wet hot and dragging down the length of his cock, and he can't stop trembling or whining for more. Not yet, it's too soon and his body feels like it's burning up from the inside.

 

Roger's throat closes around the head of his cock and Mark can't even make a sound when he comes, mouth opened in a silent scream as it hits him, ripping him apart for a few seconds before he collapses backwards against the couch, panting for air. Roger sits up, wiping the mess from his mouth, face flushed from being choked and Mark knows he should feel bad or inexperienced but Roger looks really good with his lips swollen and skin gleaming from sweat and that's all Mark manages to think.

 

Roger lays back, legs bumping into and pushing Mark's away as he tries to spread them out. His cock is sitting against his stomach, condom on and now Mark does feel a little embarrassed for coming that soon. Before Roger finishes wrapping his hand around himself, Mark crawls to his knees and over to the rock star. "I can..." He says, looking up when Roger goes still. "I mean if you want...."

 

Roger smiles, God that smile, and nods, his legs parting as he leans back. Mark licks at his lips, so nervous he can feel himself shaking just a bit as he leans down. He's done this before, but only on his friends and his old college roommate but that had just been messing around, usually while drunk. Mark closes his eyes, spreading his lips out as he takes an inch of Roger into his mouth. The latex tastes disgusting, bitter and sharp as his tongue rolls over the tip.

 

Rough hands curl into Mark's hair, making him yelp softly. Roger moans, a low and deep sound that rumbles through them both. The taste is disgusting, but Mark thinks he might do it again to make Roger keep moaning like that. He does, and Roger arches up until his cock is buried in Mark's mouth. Mark tries to keep his cheeks hollowed around Roger, tries not to choke, but it's hard with the way the rock start keeps pushing off the couch.

 

It only lasts a few strokes, and then the condom in Mark's mouth is filling and Roger is falling back with a low moan. Mark pulls up as soon as he can, his throat feeling raw from the experience. He swallows hard to try and coax it, rubbing his hands across his eyes to make sure the tears he felt start to well up haven't started falling. Not that Roger would notice. He's bent across the armrest, eyes still closed as he soaks in the orgasm. "So," he says, slowly sitting back up, "Where'd April find you?"

 

Mark leans away from Roger, back against the other armrest. Not that he's scared of the rock star. Actually, Roger looks almost tame now. Okay, he's still naked, but he is no longer looking at Mark like he's about to pounce and pull him apart. He's wearing a sort of lazy grin, mostly harmless. "I, uh, I was at the club," Mark explains. "I saw your poster and I remembered you from Scarsdale."

 

It's a cheap short to see if Roger remembers anything about Scarsdale. Not that Mark can blame him for forgetting. There is a lot about his hometown he wouldn't mind blocking out of his own memory. Roger cocks his head, nodding just a bit. "Scarsdale." He says it slowly, rolling it around before he smiles again. "Yeah, you're Kate's friend's little brother, right?" Always such a long line to get to the connection. Mark nods, glad Roger at least remembers him after some minor hints. "Yeah... Wow, you look... older."

 

Mark is sure he still looks like a scrawny sixteen year old, but he smiles a bit. It's just nice to know that Roger isn't the type who forgets a person the second he leaves. Roger pushes himself up with a grunt, grabbing a pillow and holding it over his lap. He is sitting curled up on one side of the couch, naked expect for the throw pillow, looking at Mark with the small smile and curious expression. And, okay, they just sucked each off and, yeah, Mark is homeless and lost in the city and there is nothing obviously funny about any of this but Roger just looks cute - that the only word for it - and Mark can't help it. He's had this vision of Roger since he met him. This reckless city rock star, young and beautiful forever, and here he is curled on the couch with a mismatched pillow over his crotch looking so fucking adorable. Mark starts laughing, okay, snorting. He covers it with his hand, but Roger catches enough that he grins back.

 

"You laughing at me?" Roger doesn't look to insult, still wearing that bright smile that splits his face in two and makes his eyes wrinkle up. It's endearing, and there is another word he wouldn't think to associate with the Roger in his head, and Mark can't stop laughing. It must be the tension, he thinks, all that stress of leaving school and coming here and meeting Roger, it's getting to his head.

 

Still beaming as Mark breaks down, Roger takes the pillow from his lap, smacking Mark in the side with it. "Hey!" Mark protest, and the laughing stops but he's still smiling like an idiot as he wobbles around the couch a bit. He catches the back of the couch before Roger's hit can knock him off. "What was that for?"

 

"No laughing at my sexual prowess," Roger tells him, green eyes wrinkles up in humor. Who thought the guy who seemed so sexual on stage could be so cute in real life?

 

Roger stands, stretching out, and if Mark was about to laugh again it catches in his throat. The word 'feline' comes back, echoing in his head from long ago as Roger rolls his shoulders. God, he has a sexy back. Mark isn't even sure if the back can be sexy, but looking at Roger makes him wonder. It's like something you could film, his body arching back. It's that aesthetically beautiful. Roger grunts slightly, breaking the mood. "I can call you a taxi," he offers. "If you don't want to wander Alphabet City at this time."

 

Mark isn't sure what Alphabet City is, but he decides to save himself the embarrassment of looking like a sheltered suburbanite and not ask. "Errr... It's okay," he says, and now comes the awkward part. The getting kicked out part. Mark looked around at the floor, trying to track down his clothes instead of thinking where the hell he is going to go at this time of night. "I don't really have anywhere to go, anyway."

 

He grabs his pants on a mess on the floor and stands up, hopping around until he's got them pulled back on. When he looks back up, Roger is standing there (still completely naked, like he's got nothing in the world to hide) frowning deeply. Mark is slightly taken back, looking around himself a bit to make sure his pants aren't on inside out or something weird like that. Nope. Nothing. "You on the street?"

 

"Oh, uh, not really..." Mark frowns a bit, scratching at his cheek and staring up at the skylight, and okay it's fidgeting but, yeah. "I mean, I guess. Sort of. I just got here today and I don't really..." Have anything at all, including a place to stay. Mark doesn't actually go as far as to say the last part, but Roger seems to understand.

 

"You can sleep here..." Roger waves towards the rumbled up couch. It's an unexpected offer, for sure.

 

Oh, wait, did Roger think... "I mean, I didn't come here looking for a place to stay," Mark says quickly, not wanting to seem like he looked Roger up just to crash on his couch. Hell, he hadn't even looked him up for the sex. It had been a spur of the moment, rash, in-suburbia's-face sort of decision. "I'll find something..."

 

"You won't," Roger says, shaking his head and kicking at the couch. It groans and shakes a little. Not the most comforting sight in the world. "Trust me, you won't find a place to stay if you leave now, so just sleep here for tonight." Mark can't help but look a little suspicious. He really didn't expect this from... anyone, really, much less a guy he hardly knew expect for two random sexual encounters (okay, one random and one kind of wished for and walked right into). "Look, I don't mind if you stay a while, until you get used to the city."

 

"What about April?" Mark asks, looking over Roger's shoulder to the bedroom where his girlfriend has passed out. She seems... nice, he guesses, and certainly willing to take in strangers for the night but for two or three?

 

Roger's eyes follow his. He shrugs, taking a few steps towards his bedroom. "She doesn't really live here," he explains, opening his door and leaning against it as he talks with Mark, convincing him to stay. Not that it takes much, but Mark feels he should make some attempt at not needing the rock star's help. "And my roommate, Collins, is taking in strays all the time. So it'll be fine." Roger smiles at him, slowly backing into his room and apparently not really giving Mark a choice, which is fine with him. "Night Mark."

 

"Night," Mark says as the door closes behind Roger. "Umm... Thanks...." Slowly, he sits back down on the couch. He really doesn't want to kick himself to the streets tonight, and if Roger is offering. It will only be for a few nights tops until he finds his own place. What harm can there be of staying here a few nights?


	2. Fucking & Fucking Up

A couple days (swearing he’ll be out soon, looking for a job) turns into a couple weeks (getting high and listening to Collins’ ramblings, helping Roger move a mattress they found in the street upstairs that becomes his bed) that pass by until Mark has been at the loft for four whole months. It turns out that finding his footing in New York is harder than he expected. Impossible is the word he would use.

 

Still, he loves the city with just as much fever as he had when he was younger. It’s turned into an obsession with becoming the artists he wants to be, with living the life he’s dreamed of, with proving his family wrong. So with a deep breath Mark buckles down and ignores all those little things like how he occasionally doesn’t eat and the water is broken so he hasn’t had the chance to shower in a week, and he just keeps pushing on.

 

There are some things that are harder to ignore. Like Roger.

 

Not that it’s always a bad thing, being unable to ignore Roger. The truth is, in those first four months all Mark wants to do was film until he had something worth showing. The only thing between Mark and becoming a crazed homeless man on the street muttering about scenes and angles is Roger and Collins. The anarchist to babble on about Society and Capitalize and Important Ideas that make Mark think, that give him an ideal he wants to live up to. The rock star to make sure that, every now and then, Mark talked to people instead of just watched them from the other side of the camera.

 

Eventually, so subtly Mark isn’t even sure when it happens, they becomes friends. After they push the sex out of their minds and try and get along something just clicks into place. Who can really say why two people become friends, but in the end Mark is glad it happens. Roger is a good guy, sweeter than he lets on at first. He smiles and laughs a lot, and he doesn’t mind showing Mark around the city or picking him up when he gets lost. Mark really isn’t sure what Roger sees in him, but it’s nice to have someone care enough to yank the camera out of his hands every now and then, no matter how much Mark complains when he does it.

 

Even after they settle into a comfortable friendship there is part of him that, well, obviously, still sort of likes him maybe in less of a friendly way. Okay, some nights when Mark is laying up on the couch he hears Roger and April moaning and, well, boys with their bodies. It just sort of happens. Not his fault. It’s just, well, Roger sounds pornographic when he’s groaning and crying out, and the things he says… It leaves Mark hard, which is perfectly normal for any teenage guy.

 

Right, yeah. Jerking off to the sounds of your roommates having sex falls right into the realm of normal. But as long as he is lying there, hard and awake, he might as well be doing something. So he closes his eyes and bites his lips and pretends he is in that room, pressed between those two bodies again.

 

He’s aware it’s unhealthy, to be harboring sexual fantasies about your friends, but he can’t get himself to stop. He could just disappear into his work. Mark knows he can do it, but of course Roger is there to tear the camera from his hands.

 

There is this one night where they’re at a club. Mark really isn’t sure what it’s called or why they’re here. He just knows that his camera has been taken from him, and now he wants to have fun. Regardless of what Roger thinks, he doesn’t have to force Mark to have fun. Mark enjoys himself, really, and he likes making a scene when he’s with his friends. Once, in high school, Mark and Vince jumped on a table and kissed in the middle of the cafeteria. It was to prove some sort of point, but Mark doesn’t remember what. There is pot and alcohol swearing around in his brain, and at the moment ideals don’t matter so much as the excitement of it all.

 

So they’re at a club, and he and Collins are laughing about something. He isn’t sure what, but it makes his gut hurt it’s so funny. Mark is having fun tonight, smiling and dancing (“spazzing,” Collins calls it and Mark ignores him because he doesn’t care how he looks) and now talking with Collins. Not about art or philosophy or bohemia, but just talking the way that friends can. Enjoying life, making each other laugh. The night is perfect.

 

Then Roger is there, with his arms wrapped around Mark. He recognizes the rock star’s smell, strong and dark like the laugh in his ear. “Come and dance again,” Roger says, trying to tug him away from Collins and the bar. Collins waves him off, and Mark goes willingly.

 

“You and I both suck at dancing,” Mark reminds Roger. “Why do you want to humiliate ourselves?” It’s more harmless jibes than anything else. Obviously Mark is coming with him, letting Roger move them together, his arms still wrap around him, still pressing up to his back. Mark never complains.

 

They fall into a weird rhythm, nothing like the music or others around them, and neither seems to care. “It’s fun,” Roger answers, voice rumbling through Mark’s ear. And it is fun, just being yourself with your friends, so Mark doesn’t stop him. Not even when Roger stops dancing all together, with his body pressed into Mark and his hands stroking across the strip of skin between his shirt and pants. Right now he should be stopping him, but something keeps Mark in Roger’s arms, head tipping back against Roger’s shoulder as rough lips press against his jaw and down his neck.

 

Mark can’t exactly ignore the way Roger is rubbing against him, erection trapped by his jeans and digging against Mark’s back. He should stop, because now they’re friends and you don’t throw away friendship for groping on the dance floor. Only for as much as he chants ‘just friends’ in his mind, it feels so fucking good to have Roger biting into his neck as he unsnaps the front of Mark’s jeans, hand sliding down past his boxers.

 

Mark gasps and arches up against those rough fingers. His mind is racing with the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this but, oh, fuck that’s good, God, Roger’s thumb pressed against the head and he isn’t stopping him now. He wants to be bohemian, right, and that means sexual freedom. Means whatever Roger wants it to so long as he don’t stop stroking him, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his neck as his hand twists around Mark’s cock.

 

In the middle of the floor, Mark starts to moan. “More,” he says, licking at his lips and whimpering softly as Roger squeezes him hard, almost painful but not enough to stop Mark from rocking into that hand. He can feel the lights pass over them and the noise of people around them and it just heightens everything. Fuck them if they think Mark and Roger are wrong for this. Mark is making a statement, a point about sexual expression or something. A statement about how much he’s needed Roger after all those nights of listening to him and April only a room away.

 

He reaches around to Roger, nails buried in his jeans as he comes. Mark barely holds back a scream, arching against Roger and spilling into his hand. He closes his eyes, lights dancing behind the lids as the heat continues humming through him, Roger’s hand still moving over him as the spasms slowly come to a stop. Then there is a lighter weight pressing up to him. Almost like waking from sleep, Mark opens his eyes and there is April’s bright smile. “Glad you kept yourself entertained,” she says, leaning over Mark to kiss Roger.

 

Right. She’s April, the girlfriend. And he’s Mark, the best friend. He needs to start remembering those.

 

Roger lets him go and Mark stumbles back to the bar, panting and tripping over himself as he tries to get himself back together again. It’s been months since Roger has touched him, which is better than years but still, and it’s even been months since Mark has had anyone but his own hand. He’s shaking a bit as he reaches the bar, not sure what to feel or think. Some moments throw you off like that.

 

“That was pretty amazing,” a voice says, drifting over the loud music and into Mark’s ear. He turns around and there is a girl. She’s got a wide smile that shows off her teeth, almost predator but lighter than that. She’s pretty, yes. Not so pretty that Mark can’t look away. Not even Roger-pretty, and he smiles at the term. Roger-pretty. But she is, in many ways, beautiful under the wild lighting of the club in her bight shirt and tight leather pants.

 

“Thanks,” Mark says, his own voice still broken. He knows what she is referring to, of course, and her eyes keep falling to the stain on her jeans so it’s easy to tell. He isn’t ashamed. He isn’t even embarrassed. Why should he be when he just got an amazing hand job, and who cares who saw that? He’s more confused then anything else.

 

The girl turns, looking behind her. “Your boyfriend looks like he got bored.” Roger is warped around April again, their hips sliding against one another. Sex with clothes on.

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Mark answers, not bitter or anything. It’s just true.

 

“Fuck buddies?” The girl asks, raising an eyebrow. As if she doesn’t think Mark is capable of having fuck buddies. A lot of people get that opinion of him, and Mark doesn’t mind too much. Honestly, he isn’t against it. He just doesn’t have time for fuck buddies. He has a film to make.

 

“Roommates,” he tells the girl, and at her suspicious look he adds, “We’re close.”

 

The girl tips her head back and giggles, snorting just a bit, and Mark can’t help but smile back. She looks prettier, he realizes, when she isn’t trying so hard. “I’m Maureen.”

 

“Mark,” he answers, holding out his hand for her. She smiles and moves closer, but doesn’t take his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“How long until you ask me to dance?” She asks with a cock of her head. Her eyes gleam in the God-awful lighting of the club. She’s already pulling him back and he lets her lead. It’s since, just to have someone take interest in him, and he likes the way she smiles and laughs and likes him even with the wet spot on his jeans. “I won’t even ask you for a hand job.”

 

*

 

Yet another fun filled day in the city.

 

There had been a point when he first came to New York, almost seven long months ago, that Mark would be walking up with a bounce in his step. Now he’s dragging himself up the street, hands curled around his chest to try and keep the warmth in. He’s spent all day walking around the city looking for something that would inspire him, that would jump out at him from all the dinginess and dirt and be his inspiration. After the failure of his last script, he needs something that is going to raise his spirits up again. Something with a part for Maureen.

 

Maureen. Mark winces just thinking about her. She’s so wild and contagious and beautiful. She draws people in, gets them hooked and then what chance do they have? They have to love her. Mark is an observer, though, and he sees through some of her layers of confidences to the girl inside the needs to be reassured, to feel loved. So, okay, maybe telling her she was ruining his film hadn’t been the smartest thing in the world. Yeah, to put it bluntly, he’s an idiot. And it isn’t Maureen’s fault, not all of it, but Mark had just been so upset. With his dad on the phone, telling him he is ruining his life and his films not working. He’d been stressed, and she’d been whining, and well…

 

She’d come back. Mark is dependable, always taking her back and he loves her, she knows that. She’d come back. He just has to wait it out, maybe buy her something. Not that he has the money to buy her anything, but he’d find a way to make it up to her.

 

Mark turns the corner back towards the loft. Not that he’s anxious to get home. Unless Collins has miraculously come up with a few more bundles of firewood, it will be just as cold up there as it is on the street. Plus, Roger might be in one of his moods. In the past few months Mark has found that Roger tends to crash every now and then, just fall to pieces. He’ll sit like a statue, staring deadpan out the window and hardly breathing at all. Nothing Mark says or does can make him smile, or even act half way excited about anything. Only April can get him to do anything when he’s like that, and Mark has no idea how she does it. Or why Roger’s eyes glaze over, or why there are needles in the trash. He spends all his time filming. How can he be expected to notice those things?

 

He’s almost to the steps when he finally notices the girl standing by the side of the road. Her curly hair is familiar even from behind as she waits on the corner, shifting from side to side. Mark can see the goosebumps crawling up her legs, disappearing beneath her too-short skirt. “Jesus, April,” he says, stopping at the front door. April turns, arms crossed over her chest, which is also… Cold. Mark can’t help it if that is where his eyes are drawn. She’s standing there in a tight white dress shirt unbuttoned to her bra and a small, plaid skirt. She looks like some kind of catholic schoolgirl from a porn movie, and Mark is only human. When he manages to get his eyes back to her face (and she is smiling, because she knows) he asks, “Aren’t you freezing?”

 

April, clearly more than a little chilled, just shrugs. Like she’s use to standing outside in November wearing next to nothing. “I’m fine,” she says, even though it looks like it aches when she pulls one arm away from her chest to wave Mark inside. “Just waiting for Roger.”

 

Mark raises an eyebrow, opening the door and almost stepping into the building. “You can’t wait inside?” Not that it is much better, but at least it is out of the wind. April looks ready to collapse, and as much as she and Roger may love each other, freezing to death is no way to show it.

 

April just keeps standing there, shifting her weight a bit to keep from freezing in place but otherwise not moving. She smiles a bit, that same smile she used the first day that Mark just followed along after. Both she and Roger seem to have that same, wicked smile. Only Roger’s has this underlining almost endearing uncertainty. Like Maureen, hiding away her need to be loved. April’s smile is all sex and mischief and its no wonder Roger is in love with her. “Well, it’s sort of a game.”

 

“What?” Mark asks, eyebrow going higher. “Is he standing around the corner trying to see who loses a toe first?”

 

April’s laugh fills the street, a burning and melodic sound like Roger’s music. “It’s not that cold,” she says, her smile becoming a bit less seductive, more playful. Mark has come up with this theory, as weird as it is, that April taught Roger that first smile, the one that is all about looking so beautiful and wild, and he taught her this one. This friendly, open one that looks so good on Roger because he looks like an over grown kid when he wears it. “Just wait until February.”

 

“I lived in Scarsdale,” he reminds her. It isn’t like he never faced a New York winter before. It’s just that usually he has heating, and his mom to but him a new coat and sweater every year instead of him having to steal one that had been laying around the loft, that is too big for him and bulky and torn up. Better than nothing. He turns back towards the door, stepping inside but still holding the door open. He feels guilty just leaving April standing there. “What are you two playing that involves you freezing to death, anyway?”

 

Back to the first, dangerous smile. “It’s too grown up for you,” she says in an almost motherly voice. As if April could manage to ever look motherly, especially in what she is wearing. She likes teasing him about the fact that he is the baby of the loft. He’s the youngest one, and the newest to the city. The baby, April insists even if Mark isn’t the one who pouts (Maureen) or throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way (Roger). She won’t leave him alone about it, though, and Mark doesn’t bother arguing.

 

Still, this time he frowns a little. What could she be doing out here that Mark is too young for? It isn’t like he’s some completely innocent, fresh-faced kid. Mark has proved on plenty of occasions that despite being a little more withdrawn then the others, he can be just as perverted as any of them. “What are you talking about?”

 

“You really want to know?” April teases, rolling her shoulders out so that her chest is even more obvious, her eyes gleaming with wicked intentions and it’s then that Mark just knows this involves sex. “Maybe if you join us, I’ll let you in on the secret.”

 

Mark would swear that the only reason April says that is to get him to back off. It’s not like he’s told anyone, though, about that promise to himself that he isn’t going to do anything remotely sexual with Roger ever again. They’re friend now, really good friends, and Mark knows better than to ruin that for a hand job on the dance floor. “Err… No,” he says, shaking his head and backing even further into the building. “That’s okay. Maureen’s enough for me.”

 

“You’re not actually with Maureen right now, are you?” April points out, taking a step close, almost purring. She must catch the glimpse of hurt, because the next second she has the sense to back off. “Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug. “Just try not to be in the living room when Roger gets home.”

 

Mark lets the door fall closed as he turns and heads up the stairs. He doesn’t know when Roger is planning on getting home, but he goes into his room just in case it’s soon. He doesn’t want to get caught up in whatever the hell the two of them are doing. Well, the real problem lays in the fact that he does, but he knows he shouldn’t and… God, why is sex and friendship so fucked up? Why can’t it just be like it had been in high school, where you could jerk your best friend off with no repercussions?

 

Because Maureen. Because Mark doesn’t want to screw up even more with her. He doesn’t think Roger would mind the casual slip-ups, the occasional blowjobs or whatever. Maureen, though. Mark sighs, sitting down on his bed and flipping open a notebook filled with half finished and crossed through scripts as he tries to distract himself from those serious thoughts. He isn’t going to hurt Maureen just because he has some weird fascination with Roger. One that is about more than sex with friends, and that scares him enough that he’s determined not to let himself slip.

 

He puts his pen down against the lined paper, waiting for the words to flow into some beautiful, meaningful work. Of course they don’t, but he keeps his pen tapping against the sheet and just keeps hoping. Maybe he can fuel his script by hope alone. That seems to be what is keeping him alive these days, what with the lack of real food and what not. It could damn well work for the film, too.

 

He’s busy imagination his life is still “going places” when he hears it. The giggling, the slow growl, the door squeaking as it’s pushed open. Mark furrows his brow, concentrating harder on the paper. He’s work through worse, he tells himself as he hears the dull thud of skin against wall, April’s giggling cutting of for a moment. He’s lived here for months. He should be use to this. He’ll just keep working and pay no attention to Roger and April doing whatever it is they’re doing.

 

Kissing, from the sound of it, and Mark can’t believe he can actually pick up the sound of lips smacking together. This is disgusting. April’s giggling starts up again just as Mark bites his lip and leans over his notebook with a new found determination to ignore them. “I don’t know,” she purrs, her voice muffled but still managing to slip under the crack of Mark’s door. “I’ve never really… done it before.”

 

Mark raises an eyebrow, scribbling across his page. Did April just suggest she is a virgin? What universe is this? The one where Mark is a hard working, cold and callused businessman and Roger is his secretary – skirt and all? He smiles a bit at the image of Roger ever doing anything he asked. Yeah, that sounds about the same likelihood as April passing as innocent.

 

“It’s okay,” Roger answers, voice a gruff growl and followed by a low moan from April. Mark keeps his eyes wide open, forcing his avid imagination not to picture what they’re doing. Write. He needs to write. “I know you want it, you little slut. Look how wet you are.”

 

Mark’s eyebrow goes higher. What the hell are they… They aren’t? They are! Mark groans, squeezing his eyes shut and resisting the urge to bang it back against the headboard. He can’t believe this. “Oh,” April is shrieking, and now he can imagine her perfectly in that skirt, probably riding Roger’s thigh and grabbing at his hand as it tugs at her underwear. If she’s even wearing any. “But I don’t know if I can take that whole thing.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters, covering his face with his hands and trying not to scream. It’s like a bad porno is being taped right outside his door. God, if they’re going to do this, couldn’t they at least get some decent dialogue? Better yet, couldn’t they just watch a porn video and then screw?

 

“Mm… I know you want to suck on this, baby.”

 

Why couldn’t he have normal roommates that looked at pictures of girls and horses?

 

Mark falls back onto the bed with a soft grown, scrubbing at his face as if he can clean the pictures his imagination is bringing up out of his mind. April and Roger start whispering to each other and pretty soon there is the ruffle of clothes and doors swinging open as they two stumble into Roger’s room. Mark can hear all of it, of course. He shuts his eyes, like that will help to block it out when honestly it just makes it worse. Because now he’s imagine Roger setting April on bed with a dark look burning up his intense green eyes. In the bedroom, Mark can hear him. Like his stage voice when he’s howling at the microphone, and it makes him shiver hearing it so close. Mark’s always loved Roger’s voice when he sings, and now the music and sex are blending in his mind, and suddenly the bad dialogue doesn’t matter. Roger doesn’t need the perfect lines when he has that voice.

 

April shrill voice fills the room. “I don’t know,” she says, Roger’s moan blending in with her words. “What if I can’t take it all?” Part of Mark is disgusted by this, but mostly the words have stopped mattering. It’s all in the tone, the honesty and the low lust that makes their voices turn dark. The more he listens the harder it gets to concentrate on his script, and, well, the harder everything gets. It doesn’t help thinking about how wrong it is to listen to his friends having some sort of weird sexual fantasy in the next room and getting turned on by listening. Mark is so screwed up, and he knows it because the idea of how wrong it is just makes him want it more.

 

This is exactly the sort of thing his mother would never approve of.

 

Mark stops thinking about his mom and leans back in bed, undoing his jeans as quickly as he can as he hears Roger growling at April. He closes his eyes tight and then it’s Roger growling at him, rough fingers wrapped around Mark’s cock, moving over him slowly, teasing as he says, “You like that?”

 

Roger with that dark growl, intense eyes, hand wrapped in Mark’s hair as he slams him back against the bed.

 

“God, yes,” April moans, and over in his bedroom Mark mouths the words. One hand goes up, grabbing into the headrest as he lifts his hips off the bed, pumping into his hand which has somehow become April’s mouth around him as she looks up at him through those long lashes, and Roger smiles down at her over Mark’s shoulder as he kisses his ear.

 

The other room fades out expect for grunts and moans, and Mark’s mind is playing with those sounds, twisting them into his fantasy and making his cock that much more sensitive under his hand. Roger growling in his ear, telling April what to do as his fingers graze down Mark’s back, brushing along his ass. Mark moans, pumping into April’s mouth and back against Roger’s fingers – scarred from the guitar strings and rough against Mark’s skin.

 

“Harder,” April screams and Mark bites at his lip too keep from echoing her as Roger, his Roger, spreads his legs and pulls Mark up against his lap, slamming into him. The picture morphs in Mark’s hand, and he doesn’t care how they got on Roger’s bed with Mark riding his cock, Roger’s hands tight on his waist as April curls his hands in Mark’s hair and pulls him closer, moaning as Mark’s tongue slides inside her.

 

Mark’s fingers cut into the cheap paint of his head board, the bed pounding back against the wall as he rolls his hips back, whimpering at the way Roger is thrusting up into him. He tightens his hand around himself, and in the other room Roger is groaning loud enough that it rings in Mark’s ears. Then April is gone and Roger is on his knees as Mark pulls them together. He can’t hold back a moan as he thrust into Roger, and the rock star shudders and pushes back against Mark’s cock, groaning, “Fuck, just like that.”

 

Mark arches off the mattress as he comes to Roger’s voice in the other room, moaning for April.

 

*

 

The phone starts ringing, and Mark considers just ignoring it. He’s determined to, really, setting his jaw in a tight line and staring down at the notebook open in front of him as he waits for an idea on his script to hit. Like ideas do, or are supposed to from how Mark understands it. His never seem to just come to him like that. More of get dragged onto paper, kicking and screaming.

 

It’s probably his mom, Mark figures, calling to ask if he’s been mugged, beaten, jailed, or eaten alive by cannibals. He isn’t sure how he would answer in the phone in some of these cases, but she calls to ask anyway.

 

This time, though, Mark considers just letting the phone ring. He doesn’t want to talk about how he is doing. There are some things his mom doesn’t need to know. Like… Like about Maureen. Mark, he loves her. He worships her. He adores her. He… needs to spend more time with her instead of working. But just because he spends more time filming than with Maureen doesn’t mean he loves her any less.

 

According to Maureen and the last fight they had, it does.

 

The damn phone is still ringing. They just cleared the machine, and it seems to take at least half and hour before it bothers to pick up when it’s cleared. Roger couldn’t stand it beeping at them anymore though, telling them that Mark’s mom had called some seven hundred times in the last five minutes.

 

The longer this phone rings, the further from his script his thoughts manage to run. Back to his home, where he’d rather not be right now. Or ever again. He wants to be independent, artistic. He wants to change the world.

 

Hard to do when you’re mom is calling to ask if you have fresh underwear.

 

The answering machine finally picks up with a long beep, and Mark sinks back into the couch already wincing. He knows what is coming next.

 

“Hey, Mark.” Wait. That is not the voice of a worried Jewish mother whose only son has run off to live with a bunch of possible murder drug addicts in New York City. Mark stares at the answering machine, almost expecting this to be some sort of trick so that he’ll pick up the phone. “Look, when you get home just call me-“

 

Mark sets down his pen and grabs the phone. “Hey,” he says, his own voice echoing through the loft from the machine as it keeps recording. Roger is going to have a fit when he has to listen through this whole conversation just to delete this one message. “Why are you calling?”

 

There is some mild shifting on the other side, like he’d been about to hang up. “Mark,” Benny says, sounding just like Mark remembered him. “Good to know this is the right number, at least.”

 

“Sorry about that,” Mark says as he sits back onto the couch, giving up on his notebook and the unfinished script inside for now. It’s been a long time since he’s had a chance to talk with his college roommate. He always liked Benny, too. He’d been one of the more sympathetic people at Brown. Most of them were either rich and could care less about Mark or snobbish art students who didn’t like any work but their own. Benny is different, and Mark had tried to keep in touch. After the first few months of living here, though, it slipped away from him. He just got swept up in the life of the City. “We screen.”

 

“Bill collectors really that bad up there?” Benny asks, and Mark can hear the smile in his voice. At least he’s doing okay.

 

“Mom is that bad is more like it,” Mark explains, rolling his eyes as Benny shamelessly laughs at him. Not that he expects anything different.

 

“I remember,” he answers, laughter slowly dying down. “What’s she hounding you about now that she can’t ask about grades?”

 

It’s a nice catch up conversation, just hearing about each other and what they’ve been doing. Better than sweating blood over his script. He concentrates his attention onto Benny, instead, trying to forget about all his failure. It’s not something he’s up for talking about, and he tries hard to avoid the question of how he’s film is going. He’s trying so hard to ignore the notebook on the table that he doesn’t hear Roger’s door open or the guitarist walk across the living room. He doesn’t notice him at all until the seat cushions are sinking down beside him.

 

Letting Benny talk on, Mark turns, jumping back a bit when he finds Roger right there beside him. The rock star gives him a cocky smile, arms spread out over the back of the couch as he lounges, taking up more than his fair share of the old thing. In his ear, Benny is still explaining about his last semester at Brown, but Mark’s attention is over to Roger, mouthing, “Who’s that?”

 

Mark sets his hand over the mouthpiece, leaning away from the phone and answering, “Benny.” He doesn’t really need to lean in. He doesn’t really need to hug Roger after every show, either, but he does. He feels guilty about it, sure, but it happens every time anyway.

 

Right now Roger smells crisp and clean, like April hasn’t been around all day and he showered this morning. That really isn’t something Mark should notice about his best friend.

 

Roger smiles like he knows. He hates when he does that. “Who?” He asks, a little louder and Mark leans back into the phone, holding up a finger.

 

“No,” he says, when Benny asks the same question. “It’s just my roommate, Roger.”

 

“Who?” Benny asks. Mark’s eyes dart to Roger, who is starting to scoot closer, giving Mark a curious look. Sometimes, Roger reminds him of a kid with how impulsive and curious he can be, not too mention the occasional fit.

 

“You remember, he’s the guy that invited me to live with him,” Mark explains, keeping his eyes on Roger as he leans in.

 

He jerks the phone back just as Roger asks, “And who is this?”

 

“Benny,” Mark explains, hand going back over the phone. “My old roommate from Brown. You remember.”

 

Roger nods, seeming to be satisfied for now so Mark goes back to his phone call. “Sorry, Benny,” he says. “So, your Senior Seminar guy was crazy, right?”

 

Benny can talk about his classes for ages, and Mark figures he’ll just settle into the couch and forget about his new and complicated life for a while now. That is, until he feels Roger tap him on the shoulder. With a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, Mark looks up at him, wondering what he could possibly want now. “What’s he want?” Roger asks, at least trying to stay quiet so that Benny can’t hear him.

 

“I don’t know,” Mark admits as he pulls away, letting Benny talk in one ear while he speaks with Roger. It’s just stuff about business school, so Mark doesn’t feel too bad. “Just called to catch up, I guess.”

 

“Mm…” Roger answers, still staring Mark down and he’s starting to wonder what this is about. Just Roger being Roger, he would guess. Still, those burning green eyes can make him feel uncomfortable, no matter what they’re doing. “So, you guys are friends?”

 

“Mm, yeah,” Mark asks, and now Roger is just asking circle questions to annoy him.

 

With this brilliant smile on his face, Roger wiggles his eyebrows. “More than friends?” He asks, that grin making him look almost wicked.

 

If it weren’t for everything Mark had done with Roger, he probably would have blushed. As it is, he manages just to roll his eyes, not giving away a thing. Only Roger is still grinning at him, so maybe he isn’t as good as he figured. “No,” he snaps, trying to go back to the conversation with Benny. At least trying not to give Roger anything else to go on.

 

It’s too late for that. Roger scoots closer until their legs are brushing together and it’s getting harder to ignore him when Mark can feel Roger’s breath against the back of his neck. “Mark and Benny sitting in a tree,” he sings in that low stage voice of his that he shouldn’t be using to mock Mark with.

 

Mark pulls back the phone again. “Oh, come on,” he says, trying to move away from Roger only to find the armrest digging into his side. “It wasn’t like that. It was just at college. We were horny teenage boys locked in a dorm room together. What do you think happened?”

 

Roger fucking beams at him.

 

“Mark?” Benny calls through the phone. Mark stops glaring at Roger for a moment, pressing the phone back up to his ear. “Mark, you there?”

 

“Yeah, sorry,” Mark mutters, trying to look anywhere but Roger. It’s not like he isn’t use to the playful teasing by now, but Roger is right there and his grin is so fucking gorgeous and, well, Mark could think of better situations to be in. He has a girlfriend, for God sake. Maureen. Think of Maureen. Back at home visiting her parents, and she left when they were fighting and technically she’d said it was over so…

 

No. They’d been through this before. Maureen always came back to him. “What?” he asks Benny, turning as far from Roger as he can. He could have just gotten off the couch, moved away from him and solve this problem but he stays where he is, brushing up against Roger. Best friends. Girlfriend. Best friends. Girlfriend. A hundred reasons why he should move away.

 

“I was just saying, about my lease,” Benny explains, and he doesn’t sound the least bit suspicious. He has no idea about how closer Roger keeps leaning in, hot breath over Mark’s skin as he presses up to him. Trying to annoy him, and it is but in all the wrong ways. Of course, how could Benny know something like that? “I was thinking of moving down to New York.”

 

“That’d be great!” Mark exclaims and, yeah, maybe he acts a little too excited but he just needs a distraction right now from how warm Roger is pressed against him. What is he doing like that, anyway? That isn’t how friends are supposed to touch.

 

“Yeah.” At least Benny doesn’t say anything about it. “I already have this figured out. You know how you always complained about having editing equipment and how it’s so hard for indie filmmakers to get a hold of?” Roger’s hand creeps up his arm, making it really hard to ignore him. Mark turns back towards him, glaring a bit. “Well, I’ve thought about it and I think I’ve figured out how a company could really help that sort of artist and still make a fair profit.”

 

“What are you doing?” Mark asks Roger, hand back over the phone.

 

Roger is still smiling, like he hasn’t done anything wrong. “Is he still interested?”

 

It takes Mark a second to remember which conversation they’re having. “No.” He listens into the phone for a moment, and Benny is still going on about business so Mark figures he’s safe. “It was just a drunken college thing. He’s straight and I….”

 

If anything Roger’s smile gets even worse. “Was a bit little college slut?” He teases, purring dark and low as his eyes wrinkle up with the wicked grin.

 

Mark shouldn’t react, but something in Roger’s voice makes him shiver, licking at his lips as he tries to swallow and breath again after the slight hitch. It’s probably that smile, that low growling voice, those dark green eyes. Either way, it’s all unfair because Mark is a young guy with all the hormones and whatnot and shouldn’t have to be exposed to rock stars who know just how good they look.

 

Roger knows. Not just how attractive he is, but that Mark is thinking about him. He knows, and Mark can see it in his way-too-dangerous smile and if Mark had any sense he would get the hell off this couch before Roger started trouble.

 

He’s already started trouble, and now he’s just pushing to see how far Mark will bend for him. It’s like a game, with that playful smile lighting up his face as he leans in and Mark finds himself pressed up between the armrest and Roger’s warm body. “Do you give drunken blow jobs to all your roommates?” He asks, cold nose nuzzling up against the side of Mark’s face. Mark wiggles around under the contact. Not like it’s helping. Not like he shouldn’t just stand up and walk away. He just doesn’t.

 

He presses the phone closer to his ear. “Yeah, a CyberArt’s studio,” he says, trying to pick up on what Benny is talking about. “Sounds great.”

 

“With the proper sponsorship, it could really get off the ground.” Roger’s hand strokes along Mark’s knee, and his eyes go right to those long, rough fingers as they trace along his jeans. Soft, ghost like touches leaving Mark tense and shaking under the contact. “And I figure where better to start it up then New York.”

 

“Makes sense,” Mark mutters, biting at his lip as his eyes follow Roger’s hand to his thigh, tracing circles over the denim. He can hardly feel the touch at all, nothing more the slight press of his jeans down against his skin, but it’s enough to have Mark’s heart skip a few beats.

 

“It’s going to be great.” Roger’s fingers curl around the crotch of his jeans and – Oh! He should stop this. Think of Maureen. Maureen who left him and told him to jerk off to his camera so much. No! No, just another fight they’d get over it and in the mean time Mark just has to not let Roger rub him off through his jeans, oh God that feels good. “A real blessing to guys like you.”

 

Mark’s free hand grabs for the back of the couch, holding onto the fabric tight enough to tear it open as he arches his hips off the cushion, riding against the pressure of Roger’s palm. He’s trying to keep from panting, pressing the phone hard into his ear like he can still pay attention to Benny while rubbing up against that hand. And because Roger knows, he squeezes him through the jeans, smirking as Mark bites down to hold back any sound. “Yeah…” He says, voice too breathless but he can’t help that. “Yeah, sounds great.”

 

“And I figured where better to put it than Alphabet City, home of the starving artist. Exactly the people who need it.” Roger continues grinning, undoing Mark’s jeans and warm fingers closing around him again, heat sinking in past the thin material of his boxers. Mark pulls the phone away just in time to whimper, thrashing around on the couch as he rocks up into that hand. The phone nearly falls to the ground as Mark pushes back into Roger’s hand, ignoring for now how fucking cocky he looks when he’s got Mark like this.

 

“It’s not you,” Mark growls, slightly broken by the low mewl as Roger squeezes again, rough fingers rubbing over Mark. “Just… Just been a while.” Only four days since his and Maureen’s last fight. He should at least hold out more than four days, but it’s not like they’re together and Roger is here, kneading up against Mark’s cock and what can he do but buck up against that contact?

 

Roger just keeps that confident smirk pasted on his face as he leans in, hot breath against Mark’s lips. “It is me,” he says, a hint of laughter edging his voice as he presses his hand back against the roll of Mark’s hips. “And you know it.”

 

Mark glares at him, turning back to the phone. “Benny, look…” I can’t talk right now. I’m getting a hand job from my best friend.

 

“So it’s okay then?” Benny asks, and Mark nearly gasps in reply. Or, really, replies to Roger as he leans in, tongue moving around his ear. Gently strokes, lapping at the skin before biting, teasing with his teeth and hot mouth and, God… Mark shuts his eyes, jaw tight as he tries not to whimper into the phone. “I can move in with you guys?”

 

Mark bites down on his lower lip, trying to stop himself from shaking as Roger’s hand presses up against his erection, rubbing him through his boxers. His warm breath sprawls out against Mark’s skin, mouth closing over his ear as he slides it into Mark’s ear, and this time it’s impossible to hold back a shaky moan as he leans into Roger. “Mark?” Benny still calling out to him, but it’s hard to pay attention to anything but Roger’s body pressed against his, hand on his cock and tongue thrusting into his ear. Roger moans, soft and dark and right against Mark’s skin, hips moving until he’s rubbing up against Mark’s thigh. Tangled up on the couch together, and Mark never wants to move so long as Roger keeps touching him like that.

 

Bodies twisted together on the couch, stroking and licking and just trying to touch each other as much as possible. “Mark?”

 

Mark swallows hard, mewling softly as he pulls back from Roger’s hand, the rock star’s growl making him shiver as he grabs for Mark again. “Benny,” Mark says, to himself as much as Roger. He doesn’t need to be doing this. Especially not with his old friend on the phone. He looks down to Roger, meeting his dark and narrowed eyes that tell Mark exactly how much he doesn’t like being forced to stop. Still, Mark holds the phone back into place, clearing his throat before he tries to speak again. “Listen, I have to…” Get off with my best friend. “Call you back.”

 

“Can I at least get an answer so I know if I should be looking around for some place else or not?” Benny asks, and doesn’t he realize Mark hadn’t been following this conversation at all? How can he be expected to listen to his friend talk about business when he has Roger hard and smirking and on his lap, tongue thrusting into his ear while his hand sneaks back down his stomach, brushing against the tip of his erection. Oh, fuck… Mark’s head tips back, breath hitching as Roger drags a nail over the sensitive skin and, God…

 

“Wh-what?” He asks, and Roger takes his open neck as permission to begin kissing down to his shoulders, teeth scrapping over the pale stretch of skin. His free hand creeps up Mark’s shirt, groping like a teenage boy, nails raking over his nipple and – Fuck, don’t moan don’t moan… Mark whines, twisting under Roger, pushing into his hands. He decides whatever it is Benny is talking about, it can’t be important. “Yeah, sure.” Anything to get off the phone.

 

“That’s great!” God, it is… Especially when Roger’s biting into his shoulder, sucking around the skin while the pads of his fingers ghosting down the trail of Mark’s stomach. Mark swallows hard, catching the moan in the back of his throat.

 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking down at Roger and grabbing his hand, trying to push it lower. “Later.” Blindingly reaching behind him, Mark slams the phone back in place, probably into place. Doesn’t fucking matter. Right now what matters is Roger’s rough hand and the way the pressure is hot and coiled in Mark’s cock, waiting for some sort of release.

 

The second the phone is away Roger pulls up, and Mark swears if this is just some sort of game he’s going to kill Roger. But he’s still wearing that smirk, the one where he knows that Mark wants this too much, more than any friend should. He’ll feel guilty about it later. When Roger isn’t just as hard as he is and kneeling between his legs. “Much better,” he purrs, reaching out for Mark.

 

Mark lets himself get pulled up, lips slamming together for a messy, rough kiss. It doesn’t really matter if his lips end up swollen and bruised from this. Mark claws at Roger’s shirt, trying to get it the hell out of the way for just a little more skin. Roger is pushing him back, off the couch and Mark just follows, breaking the kiss and gasping for air as his feet hit the ground. “Get these the fuck off,” Roger growls, hands going to his jeans and boxers, tugging them down and Mark steps out of them as quickly as possible, nearly losing his balance in all of this.

 

Actually does lose his balance when Roger tries to pull off his shirt. Mark winces as his back hits the table, the steel top digging into his spine. “Careful!” He says, reaching around to try and massage the spot as Roger tears off his own clothes.

 

He isn’t really expecting it, then, when Roger shoves him hard back up against the table. “Wimp,” he says, teasing for all of a second before their mouths are back together in another harsh kiss that leaves Mark whimpering. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into Roger, but he isn’t arguing with it. Just going along with the ride, letting Roger lead as his hands run across Mark’s chest, stroking and scrapping and touching every inch before making it to his hips.

 

Mark just tries to stay with the kiss. He grabs for Roger’s hair, tugging him forward and moaning as their tongues slide together. Roger’s nails dig into his legs, pulling them up around his waist, and Mark pulls at him, moaning into his mouth as their cocks rub up against each other. He could probably come, just rolling their hips together like this and it doesn’t matter how pathetic that is, the way Roger feels pressed against him is enough to make Mark forget that he isn’t a desperate puberty-stricken teenager anymore.

 

When Roger pulls out of the kiss, Mark moans and leans in, trying to follow his lips. He’s quickly snapped out of that when Roger grabs him, turning him around and shoving him up against the table. “Shit,” Mark says, coughing as his stomach slams into the edge and that is not the right fucking way to get him off.

 

Roger leans in, kissing his ear and smacking his ass lightly, almost playfully. “Stay there,” he growls. Still wincing, Mark grabs at the edges of the table, not really having to imagine what’s happening next.

 

Only then Roger is gone, and Mark hears a door open somewhere behind them. Frowning, he opens his eyes and turns around. “Roger?” This is not fucking funny, he wants to scream. He’s hard as fuck and Roger isn’t allowed to tease and then just run off.

 

Roger comes back out of his bedroom, small bottle in his hands. “Told you to stay still,” he says, but he’s grinning as he sets the bottle down on the table next to Mark, his hands already slick with the stuff. Mark bites at his lip, turning back around. Maybe he should make some effort to say something about one of the hundreds of reasons why this may not be the best idea.

 

Roger’s finger presses up against him, and no, no there is no reason why Mark shouldn’t enjoy this. He can feel Roger’s chest press against his back, warm breath back in Mark’s ear as a single finger circles around his entrance, barely pressing in. “Spread your legs,” Roger whispers, tongue flicking out to run along his ear. Mark shivers, pressing himself closer to that finger, legs sliding apart. Like he really needs to be told at this point.

 

No one else is here but Roger, and with the way he smiles he already knows that Mark couldn’t care less how he looks so desperate, couldn’t care less about a whole lot so long as there is sex involved. Just because he’s an artist doesn’t mean he’s not a guy. He shouldn’t be expected to say no when Roger has him pressed up against a table.

 

Since Roger isn’t moving, Mark does. He grabs the table, nails scrapping along the already marred up metal as he slides back against Roger’s finger. “You need to relax,” Roger says, biting and playing with his ear again as he holds his hand still, waiting for Mark to push himself back. And he does, shamelessly, pressing down against Roger’s hand until he’s whimpering softly. Roger still doesn’t move. Just licks around Mark’s ear, whispering words of encouragement as Mark rocks his hips back down, until soft whimpers turn to moans and a second finger is pressed inside him.

 

He keeps moving back, ignoring the slight ache as he pushes down against the fingers. Thrust get more confident, his nails scratching up the underside of the table as he steadies himself, hips bucking up as he rocks down hard, letting himself be pushed on by the dark moans and whisper in his ear. His feet slide further apart as he twists back against Roger’s hand, slamming himself against the rough pads. “Fuck!” Mark’s stomach hits the table as he falls forward, rocking back harder as Roger starts thrusting back against him, curling his fingers to rub up against that spot until Mark is whimpering, tears clinging to his lashes. Fucking himself back against those fingers with a messy, sloppy pace. Doesn’t matter, just that each thrust makes his cock aching and leaves him moaning for more.

 

He isn’t sure how he manages to let go of the table, but his own hand is wrapping around his cock, rubbing himself as he rocks back against Roger. Fuck, just a little more… Just a little more and Roger grabs his hand, slamming it back against the table.

 

Mark wants to protest but all he can manage is a whimper. A condom wrapper flutters down next to his face, the bottle being thrown recklessly across the room when Roger’s finished with it. Mark whimpers, trying to pick himself back up, nearly collapsing to the floor. Doesn’t matter, because the next minute Roger’s arms are wrapped around his stomach, holding him against the table. “God, yes,” moaned right in his ear as Roger pushes inside him.

 

Mark tries not to tense up, but he can’t stop his body from reacting when Roger thrusts inside him, groaning into his ear. With a small growl, Mark grabs for one of Roger’s hands, pulling it down to his cock. He whimpers, squirming around beneath Roger as he leans into Mark, pressing his overheated skin up against the cold tabletop. And Roger, he takes his time, lazily stroking Mark like there is no hurry. Like Mark hasn’t been hard since Roger first climbed onto the couch next to him.

 

“Asshole,” Mark growls, the sound turning to a soft mewl as he tries bucking up against Roger’s light touches.

 

Roger grabs for his hips, holding Mark back against the table. “You’ll get there,” he promises, biting down on his ear as he starts to rock their hips together. His thrust quickly get rougher, pushing Mark hard against the table and against his hand as it wraps around his cock, rough fingers squeezing him hard and Mark cries out loud enough for anyone in the building to hear as he’s slammed up to the side of the table.

 

It’s harder than he’s use to, the way Roger fucks him back against the cold metal and Mark can’t do anything but moan and twist beneath him. Wouldn’t do anything because his hand feels so fucking good so nothing else really matters. Only the way Roger rocks against him it’s like he has something to prove or own or mark up. Who the fuck cares so long as he doesn’t stop.

 

Mark’s eyes screw shut, blood humming in his ear, burning through his body and he’s trapped in this messy rhythm, rocking back against Roger’s cock and into his hand. He wants to stay suspended like this, never mind the slight pain of bumping up into the table because everything else is perfect down to the heat coiled in his gut, the pressuring building in his cock as Roger’s fingers tighten around it. Mark’s nails almost dig through the metal of the table, holding on as his body tenses up, and all the sensations get to be took much and, “Fuck!” Mark jerks forward, body shaking as the orgasm rips through him, leaving him quivering and panting against the tabletop.

 

A few more erratic thrusts later and Roger is against his back, hot breath washing over Mark’s skin as he collapses. It’s not the best way to end way, pressed between a cold table and having Roger’s almost dead weight over him. Mark is too breathless to complain.

 

Somewhere, what seems like miles away, the phone rings.

 

Roger groans, nuzzling up to Mark’s skin. “So?” He asks, ignoring the ringing. Probably just Mark’s mom. That’s what they always assume. “Better than your old roommate?”

 

Mark frowns, not quite sure what Roger means by that. Anyway, he doesn’t want to be squashed between the table and Roger when he hears his mom’s voice. With a grunt, he starts to push himself out, wiggling away from Roger even when the weight on top of him growls from the movement. He rolls his eyes, wincing a bit when his sweat slick skin sticking to the metal top for a second.

 

There is a loud beep and a few seconds pause. “Mark?”

 

Roger pulls away from Mark. “Shit,” Mark says, running a hand through his hair like anyone can see him. Except for Roger, of course, and he doubt’s Roger cares if he looks a little sex rumbled.

 

“Mark. I just wanted to call and say how much I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean any of that, pookie.” Really, Roger isn’t looking at him at all. Just picking his clothes up from the floor as Mark dashes across the room to pick up the phone. Mark tries not to wonder. Tries not to think about any of this as he runs to get the phone before Maureen hangs up.

 

See? He just had to be patient and hold out for her. She always comes back.


	3. Scripts & Sickness

“You know, I can see what the appeal is with these things.” Mark turns himself around to get a feel for what he’s wearing, his eyes staying on Roger’s reflection in the bathroom mirror. His rock star of a roommate is leaning up against the wall and wearing this huge grin. Mark knows he’s being laughed at, but he just smiles back. Roger has one of those smiles where it’s always so hard not to smile with him.

 

“Don’t tell me,” he says, shaking his head. Curls of blonde and brown fall into his eyes, making him brush them back behind his ears. He keeps complaining about how he needs to get it bleached and cut again, but Mark thinks the grunge look works for him. He thinks the shaggy, unmatched hair makes him look that much more like a bohemian mess of a rock star, but April favors the short, spiked, and bleached and, seeing as it’s April that ties Roger up nearly every night, he’s going to end up cutting it. “You like it because it makes you feel free.”

 

“Well, yeah…” He laughs, spinning again and the skirt forms a white ring around his waist. Roger’s smile grows and in the mirror, Mark gives him a pout. “What? If you were in a skirt, you’d be turning around, too. It’s hard to resist.”

 

This time, Roger doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. He just laughs at Mark and reaches out to tug at the edge of the white skirt. “I think Marilyn Monroe’s skirt was a little longer than this,” he points out, pulling it down to around Mark’s knees, and that’s a stretch of the fabric.

 

Mark shrugs. Yeah, he’d prefer not having to show off his pale, skinny legs but last minute costume shopping didn’t leave him with much choice. “It’s all I could find,” he explains, adjusting the top. When Collins had seen the costume he’d said that all Mark needed was a wig and a vent and he would make a perfect replica. On his way out the door to his girlfriend’s Hampton based Halloween party, Benny added that he could use make-up and some breasts. Mark doesn’t exactly have those sorts of resources, so he just brushes his hair down the best he can and hopes that works enough to help him pass it off as a planned outfit for the evening. Maureen has been telling him about this party for weeks, and even after agreeing to go, Mark still waited until the last possible moment to get a costume together.

 

Not the best boyfriend move ever, but Mark has had more things on his mind. Like his films for one, none of which seem to be working for him. And the fact that it’s getting colder and they don’t have money or heat in this place, even with Collin’s job at NYU and Benny working for some real estate guy and Maureen’s stint as a waitress and Roger’s almost steady gigs. All that money seems to disappear before it goes anywhere important. There is that and the needles in the bathroom trash, the way Maureen doesn’t come back some nights. There are things that Mark’s had on his mind, that’s all. So maybe he hasn’t been paying his girlfriend as much attention as he should, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her. It just means that he was a little late with this whole costume thing.

 

“You think it’s going to pass?” Mark asks, distracting his thoughts by trying to adjust the mimicked Marilyn outfit he is wearing to the party of Maureen’s tonight. They’ll have this party, and this night to forget about everything else, and they’ll be fine.

 

In the mirror, Roger’s reflection gives a non-helpful shrug. “I guess. As long as people don’t mind being blinded by your legs.”

 

“Very helpful,” Mark mutters, still messing with the hem of the dress to try and get it lower and hide more of his skin. “It was the only thing –“

 

“Sure,” Roger says, rolling his eyes, but smiling so Mark knows everything is still alright between them, no matter how bad off every other part of their lives seem. “You sure you’re not just using it as an excuse to wear a skirt?”

 

This time Mark turns around to face the real Roger instead of the backwards reflect so he can take a swing at his arm. “Shut up,” he says, yelping and jumping back when Roger tries to cuff him back. “You know you like it.”

 

The rock star smiles and looks ready to lunge forward, and Mark is already squeaking and pushing himself back against the sink. Before Roger can answer, the phone rings, a dead sounding beep filling the room as the answering machine picks up. Neither of them even reaches for the phone. By now, they know that it’s better just to screen. “Pookie?” It’s Maureen’s voice, just a little slurred, coming through the machine. Mark slips by Roger who laughs at him, mouthing the nickname. “Markie, I know you’re there.”

 

“Hey, Maureen.” When he picks up the phone and shoves it against his ear quickly so that she doesn’t hang up, the background static becomes a whole lot clearer. Music and laughing and clearly a party. Wasn’t she supposed to wait for him?

 

“Hey, pookie,” she says and, yeah, she’s drunk. Mark sighs, rubbing at his forehead and hoping she hasn’t gotten herself into trouble. He loves her, but he knows Maureen isn’t the best at avoiding attention, good or bad. “You’re still at home, right?”

 

“Err…” He looks down at the phone. She’s calling the house phone, so it seems like a stupid question. How drunk is she, exactly? “Yeah. I thought you were coming home after work so we could go to that party together.” From the sounds of things, Maureen is at the party and has been for a while, and probably isn’t about to drag herself out of the fun to pick up Mark. Oh, well. Maybe by the time he gets there, she’ll be so out of it he can lead her home without too much of a scene. Mark snorts at his own thoughts. Maureen can’t do anything without making a scene.

 

“About that…” There is some ruffling, what sounds like a hand going over the receiver and more laughing, some of it Maureen’s. Mark closes his eyes and strains to listen, and maybe he’s just a glutton for punishment but he wants to hear what she’s saying to whoever she has with her right now. All he can hear is some muffled conversation and with the static of the background, he can’t make anything out of it. “I know how much you hate these things,” Maureen says when she gets back on. “Parties and all.”

 

He opens his eyes again, switching back to Maureen’s slurred voice right in his ear. “I don’t hate parties,” he points out. Sometimes he has more important filming to do, but he likes people and being with others and having fun. He isn’t a hermit, damnit! “I want to go….”

 

More laughing, and this time Maureen doesn’t even try and hide it. She even does that cute little snort thing that Mark likes to get out of her, and now she’s doing it for some other asshole while Maureen tries to talk Mark into staying away so she can be with the other guy for the night. Mark isn’t stupid, he has got this all figured out. He wants to tell her that, too, to stop treating him like an idiot because he knows what she is doing. He wants her to know that he knows what she’s doing and can’t she just stop already so that they can be happy together?

 

He swallows hard, knuckles white around the phone as he waits for Maureen to get done laughing with this guy. What can he say? That she shouldn’t be cheating? That it’s wrong for her to screw around? How is that going to sound coming from him after all those slips with Roger, after more than one time ending up with his best friend? Sure, he hasn’t really slept with Roger since Maureen, and he can tell himself that all those other times they mess around are just boys being boys, but more and more it feels less like something you do with your best friend and more like cheating. Mark can’t exactly be on the high moral ground here, so he just has to bite his tongue while Maureen giggles with this guy before she finally remembers Mark. “You’ll have more fun at home, filming,” she points out, drunkenly happy. “I’ll be home later, okay pookie?”

 

“Oh…” The dial tone goes deep, a low monotone in his ear as Maureen hangs up and goes back to her party. “Kay…” Sighing, Mark puts the phone back in the cradle. Maybe he will get his camera, go out to see what he can film. Anything is better than sticking around the loft, waiting for Maureen to stumble back in and pretend none of this ever happened.

 

He glances to his camera, waiting for him on the table. As of late all his scripts feel dull and contrived and anything he shoots is just as bad. He wonders why he can’t film anymore, like a huge part of the inspiration for it is gone. He wonders why he isn’t a good enough boyfriend that Maureen feels the need to go to parties and pick up anyone that isn’t him. Maybe if he could get some confidence back with his film he could finally manage to make the movie he wanted. Maybe if he were more self assured and daring instead of just a nervous, failing filmmaker, she would like him more.

 

“Was that her?” Mark jerks back slightly as Roger jumps up next to him, feet swinging out as he sits down on the edge of the table. Mark looks up at his best friend and he can tell that Roger knows. They all know that Maureen is cheating on him, but no one is going to go as far as to say anything. Like they all know why Roger and April lock themselves in his room for hours on end, coming up dazed and shaking, but if anyone actually calls him on it that will make it too real. So they let it go unsaid.

 

Mark shrugs and starts tugging at the top of his custom. He’ll change out of this, stuff himself in his room, and try and write another script for his documentary. Maybe something about the rampant sexual freedom of many bohemian New Yorkers today and how it leaves filmmaker’s relationships shattered. “Yeah. She decided to go without me.”

 

She decided that Mark just wasn’t worth putting up with when she could have someone else. Roger gets that, and he just smiles at Mark. No need to say anything about it. That would be cutting too close to serious conversations and by now both of them have so many secrets and problems that they don’t want to chance anything spilling out. “So I guess you’re gonna go….”

 

“Write,” Mark fills in, nodding. What did Roger want him to do? Actually go over there and go after Maureen? No, let her have her space. She’ll always come back to Mark, right? He’s safe, trustworthy, and dependable. Sure, he’s not the tough, dangerous, aggressive guy she’s probably sleeping with right now but he doesn’t have to be, because what Maureen wants is someone to come back to. He can be that guy, right? “I’m going to change,” he mutters, not wanting to have to stand out here and think anymore about all the guys that Maureen would rather have right now.

 

He’s about to head into his room when Roger grabs for him. Well, grabs for the skirt, pulling Mark back. “Too bad,” he says, and Mark twists back to see his friend smiling down at him. That smile that means he has to smile back. “I kind of liked you in this.”

 

“Gee,” Mark says, rolling his eyes as he reaches back to swat Roger’s hand away so he doesn’t end up ripping the skirt. Maybe he can take it back and get money for it. He wonders if thrift stores will let him return something he bought there for three dollars in the first place. “Why thank you, mister.” It’s supposed to be a Marilyn Monroe impression, but Mark hasn’t seen anything by her since his mom made him watch Gentle Prefer Blondes, so it fails pretty badly. Enough that Roger laughs at him, but at least lets his skirt go so Mark can head back to his room.

 

“Roger!” Mark swings around fast enough to get whiplash, yelping and hands going to his ass. Roger smiles at him, trying to look innocent with his hands folded perfectly in his lap. Mark just glares, rubbing the skin where Roger had slapped him. “Jerk.”

 

The innocent look cracks and Roger ends up laughing again. It’s really hard to be upset with Roger when he’s laughing like that, open and soft and Mark pretty much ends up melting, rolling his eyes as he gives up on glowering at his best friend. “What?” he asks, flashing that grin at Mark that looks like it could make his cheeks ache. “Come on. You looked so good. I couldn’t help it.”

 

“You couldn’t help hitting me on the ass when I walked by?” Mark asks with a raised eyebrow, not quite following the logic in that one.

 

Roger just keeps smiling at him like it’s perfectly normal to slap your best friend like that when he walks by. “It was so cute.”

 

“You really do hit on anything in a skirt, don’t you?” Roger laughs again, nodding and looking unashamed. And, okay, it’s funny to watch Roger sitting there, laughing his ass off, and even with his bad mood over his film and Maureen, Mark smiles back.

 

Something clicks, maybe just because they’re been friends for a while now and Mark is use to playing with Roger like this. Maybe it’s more serious, that whole idea that he is just Maureen’s responsible fallback getting to him. Maybe it’s the fact that for whatever reason, Maureen and him haven’t had sex in a week and he really needs some outlet for all that energy.

 

Mark leans towards Roger, batting his eyes lashes and making Roger laugh harder until he’s clutching his gut. When Mark sets his hands on Roger’s thighs, sliding between his legs, it isn’t meant to be as funny. It gets Roger’s attention, and he slowly stops laughing, looking down at Mark with a curious expression, waiting to see what he’s doing. Only thing is, Mark doesn’t know what he’s doing. He just wants to push. To show that he isn’t just some scared little would-be college student. He likes parties and people and public sex too, damnit.

 

“I could sue you for sexual harassment,” he jokes, something he would say even if they were still just messing around and his hands weren’t rubbing up against Roger’s legs. He’s a sexual driven teenage boy, just like all those guys Maureen picks up. He can be just as spontaneous and rough as any of them.

 

Roger’s legs move apart, forcing Mark’s hands to slide up. He doesn’t seem to mind the touching at all, looking down at Mark through his lashes as he licks at his lips. It’s a nervous habit Mark knows Roger has, but he blocks it out. Roger is a sexual God of a rock star, right? After all this time with him, Mark has shaken a lot of those old myths he use to think about Roger, but that is one he never shook. Roger can’t get nervous about sex. “I don’t think you would.”

 

“Maybe…” Mark has lost most his interest in the conversation. He takes a deep breath to gather up his nerves as he reaches for the zipper of Roger’s jeans. If Maureen is going to go out and cheat that Mark can certainly… He isn’t even sure what he’s doing anymore. Just pushing himself on, not wanting to accept that he’s just Maureen’s back up plan. He has to be worth a little more than that even if it’s just being more than a best friend to Roger.

 

Roger doesn’t argue with the plan, lifting his hips so that Mark can pull off his jeans, pulling off his own shirt. He doesn’t say anything until Mark slips the top off and starts to wiggle out of the skirt. Then Roger reaches for him, pulling at his arms. “Leave it on?”

 

Mark looks up at Roger, raising an eyebrow at the request. Roger keeps looking down at him with dark, serious eyes and, well… Later he’ll tease Roger over this kink. Right now he nods and stops trying to get out of the skirt. “Okay.”

 

Roger smiles at him and Mark smiles back. It’s awkward for a moment, Roger sitting in front of him naked, Mark standing there with a skirt hanging around his waist and both know what is going to happen and both know that it shouldn’t and neither is doing anything to stop it. He could still leave, Mark thinks. He could be the safe guy that Maureen wants, turn around, and leave right now. They haven’t done anything other than undress one another. He could still leave.

 

Roger hesitates as he leans forward, bends down until he’s kissing Mark, and then he knows that he isn’t going to just walk away from this. It’s what he has been pushing for, and the moment Roger kisses him Mark snaps. He presses into Roger, hands wrapping around his neck and he pulls him down into a hard, deep kiss. The kind that can leave lips bruised, tongues eagerly sliding against one another and mouths smashed together. Messy and rough, the sort of kiss that good, level-headed cameramen do not give. The kind that, when they break apart, leave Roger breathless and flushed and still staring down at Mark like he has never seen him before.

 

Tangling his fingers into Roger’s shaggy hair, Mark takes a step back and tugs him down off the table. Further down, pushing him to his knees. If he has control over nothing else in his life he has this at least. Pulling his skirt up and yanking Roger forward and before he can even say anything Roger has his cock in his mouth, wrapping his lips around him.

 

He closes his eyes, tells himself he can pretend Maureen is the one sucking him off. The skirt flutters down over Roger’s head, hiding those curls and his lips stretched around his cock, and Mark lies to himself and says he can pretend it’s his girlfriend. Only Roger’s mouth is hot and wet around his erection, and when Roger groans it sends jolts right up Mark and he doesn’t want it to be Maureen. His hand tightens in Roger’s hair until he’s pulling him down around his cock, loosing track of coherent thoughts because who cares. Fingers slide between Mark and Roger’s lips, and Mark looks down, whining with him and tugging at his hair. No, he just wants Roger’s mouth and he can’t find the strength to form words right now but even with his disjointed thoughts he knows that he wants Roger to finish and not start pulling away.

 

Finally Roger pulls his hand away, going back to sucking around Mark, tongue running against him and fingers sliding up his leg. Mark groans and nearly falls forward, catching himself on the table as Roger rubs his fingers against him. It stings but not enough that Mark wants him to stop. Just enough that he wants more, that he’s spreading his legs for Roger, thrusting harder into his mouth. Whimpering and moaning softly as he rocks back against Roger’s hand.

 

“Up,” he whines, tugging at Roger’s hair until he’s dragged him off the floor. He wants to, needs to kiss him right now, so hard that their teeth clash together and Roger stumbles back and Mark doesn’t let him go.

 

See, he isn’t safe or reliable. He is bohemian, unpredictable, not the boyfriend waiting at home while he’s girlfriend is out getting fucked.

 

Mark pushes Roger back to break the kiss, and Roger hits the edge of the table with a groan. “Didn’t know you could get that rough,” Roger chuckles but, really, he shouldn’t be talking right now. This isn’t about him making snippy comments so that what they’re doing seems harmless and friendly. Mark doesn’t have time to keep that line drawn. Maureen thinks he’s safe and waiting for her, and Mark is still reeling from that and small things like making sure that this is nothing more than helping a friend out don’t matter anymore.

 

What would Maureen think if she knew that her safe, predictable filmmaker was pushing his best friend up onto the table, straddling his hips as he bites at Roger’s lips. He doesn’t pay attention to his friend’s surprised look because, hey, Maureen would probably be more surprised wouldn’t she? Walking in with whatever guy she has tonight and finding Mark on top of Roger, skirt around their laps as he undoes Roger’s jeans, hand wrapped around his friend’s cock and Roger doesn’t seem to mind the roughness anymore. Good, because Mark is past the point of stopping because Maureen seems to forget that Mark isn’t just some wimp with a camera that she picked up of the street.

 

“Fuck.” Beneath him, Roger’s body arches up from the hard metal table, erection pushing further into Mark’s tight first. “Dude, don’t bite that hard.” Mark kisses at Roger’s shoulder, teeth marks embedded in his skin.

 

“What’s wrong with being rough?” Mark asks as he grabs a condom from Roger’s pocket, and it’s a good thing the rock star always has at least three on him. Why does everyone think Mark is going to be gentle and blind when his friends mess up? Just because he doesn’t bring up Maureen’s constant cheating or how Benny is on his way to abandoning them or that Roger is fucking dying on him and no one seems to notice how bottled up these things get.

 

Mark grabs onto Roger’s hips as he slams himself down against Roger’s cock and, fuck, yes it burns and hurts like hell but at least it’s something. Something more than waiting for Maureen to get home drunk or Roger shooting up and Mark unable to do anything or watching Collins getting sicker every day because some fucking student didn’t tell him he was positive. At least it’s something else.

 

Mark screams loud enough to disturb that girl who just moved in under them. His nails dig into Roger’s hips, keeping him pinned to the table as he moves against him. Whimpering beneath him, trying to thrust his hips up, Roger reaches out for Mark, pushing the white skirt away as he wraps his callused fingers around Mark’s cock. All of it rough, hurried and not something friends do. Not something boyfriends with girlfriends who expect them to be a fall back, always there, secure and blindly follow sort of love.

 

It’s probably not even something a bohemian socialist putting his whole heart into an art that has never once given him anything back should be doing, but sex doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t stop just because Mark should know better, and he keeps slamming his hips back and thrusting into Roger’s hand, riding it out until he’s coming, until he can feel Roger shuddering beneath him.

 

“You didn’t even sing me happy birthday,” Roger whispers, panting against Mark’s shoulder as they lay there on the cold tabletop, still tangled together, Mark’s skirt soaking in the mess between them. Any minute April could walk through that door and pull Roger away from him with a needle or Maureen could come home, flaunting her activities, trying to get any sort of attention from Mark just so he’ll give her attention, and Mark needs to get himself up and cleaned so he can go back to his regular routine. Pretending not to see what is right in front of his face.

 

*

 

_ VOICE OVER (STANLEY BRIDGES) _

_ November 18, and New York is a frozen hell still. The buildings rise out from the ice, trapped like Lucifer and chewing at her denizens to spit them from corporate America, souls devoured and shredded past recognition. In Alphabet City, the artists and the homeless merge as twisted bodies locked under the ice, distorted versions of the real selves as they try and fight off the deadly winter in any means possible, losing that inch of dignity and integrity they’re so desperately clinging to. We all fester in this Dis, forgotten and scorned for not selling ourselves out. Left to freeze in this icy hell for the sins of a heretic against the capitalist nation. For believing in unity, originality, and truth in the face of the masses. _

 

“You worthless BITCH.”

 

The shout bursts into Mark’s creative flow, fingers pausing over the keys of his typewriter. The tips of his pale fingers poke out of ragged clothes, posed over the keys of the broken machine as he tries to finish yet another script. Beside him is a pile of papers that he’s already given up on, just like he’s given up on every single other script he has ever tried to produce. Now his next attempt is being interrupted by Roger’s angry voice breaking through the walls. One room over, he can hear April scream and something heavy land on the floor. Roger doesn’t scream back, so it probably isn’t his guitar.

 

Mark shuts his eyes, fingers brushing against the keys. He doesn’t have to have his eyes opened to type, and even if he did it wouldn’t matter, since half the keys have had their white letters rubbed off a long time before he found this typewriter. At least with his eyes closed, he can pretend to ignore the fight while he keeps trying to write.

 

_ Ask any artist whether they regret plunging themselves into such depths as these and they’ll defend their decision to the death, which as the snow gathers on the street seems to be inching closer yet. They want nothing to do with money or fortunate and they only live for their art. Only paintings aren’t going to keep us warm, you can’t even burn them, and poetry won’t fill anything but your soul and our souls aren’t twisting and growling out of hunger. Maybe I’m weak, but as the winter drags on you wonder which hell is worse. This frozen terrain of art, or the bleak picture of the yuppies up street have painted for themselves. Back at my safe haven against this ruthless season, my friends are beginning to fall apart. _

 

“That’s fucking hysterical, coming from you!” Mark takes a deep breath, fingers pulling back from the keys before they twitch and mess up his paper. April’s voice is high and loud enough that he’s sure the whole building can hear her yelling back at Roger. “You can’t even get a fucking gig. Hell, you haven’t written anything worth listening to in YEARS and you call ME worthless? At least I have a job!”

 

“Flirting half naked with a bunch of drunken yuppies at some hotel bar isn’t a job!” Roger yells back, and the fist against the wall makes Mark stumble, the typewrite rattling in his lap. He clings to it to keep it from falling onto his bed.

 

“It’s better than anything YOU’VE done with YOUR life!” They sound like his parents. Well, with more cursing and usually his mom and dad tried to keep their voices down so that the kids couldn’t hear, where Roger and April are loud enough to wake up the whole building as they scream back and fourth at one another. It’s the same feeling that Mark used to get, though, when he sat up in his room listening to his mom and dad. He knew back then that the fights didn’t mean much, and he knows that, just like his parents, April and Roger’s fights are just a way to break the tension between them. Nothing serious, something that all couples did. They leave him with this feeling that he can’t explain, though.

 

Like back at home when he wished the fights would mean something so that his mom and dad did divorce so that he wouldn’t have to deal with them together anymore. An almost wistful feeling.

 

Shaking his head, he adjusts the typewriter in his lap once again.

 

_ It won’t be long before Bobby gives up and moves away from this hell and into the other. He’s already asking me to come with him, to escape from this artist encampment where all these geniuses get sucked in and wiped out. The scary part is how much I want to go with him. How easy it would be to give up on this life we’re living and try to find something better. Even our resident anarchist, Jack Daniels, has found a better place to be. In Boston to teach the upper class minds of MIT. Warm and tucked away, and even though his job isn’t as disgusting as the marriage of Bobby to the murderer of the artists, I know that even he feels like he is abandoning some inch of him. _

 

“You’re a fucking whore, April!” Mark wishes that Collins were here right now. He’s pretty sure he would hand them both a joint and tell them to calm the fuck down, that their yelling isn’t doing anything. It’s like fucking for virginity, killing for peace. They both need to settle down or they won’t get anything done. Mark could go in there and tell them that himself, but he is afraid to look at Roger anymore.

 

He can see his ribs and thinning hair and shaking hands and… Well, it’s none of his business if they’re fighting. He should just stay out of it. That is what he needs to do. Just keep writing his script, making his film. That is why he is here in New York. Not to look out for some guy he happened to sleep with once back in high school. There are things more important than sex and friends. Like finishing this film.

 

_ The cold has even made lovers brittle and easy to snap into pieces, like a thin icicle hanging from the fire escape. Moria keeps asking me what is more important _

 

_ MORIA JEFFERSON _

_ Me or that fucking book of yours? _

 

“Well if you had a job I wouldn’t have had to fuck him!” There is another loud noise, and this time Mark is certain it’s Roger throwing something across the room. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses enter on the typewriter. Maybe he’ll finally leave April for this, and then life will go back to how it was before her and Mark will finish this film and Roger will get healthy again. He just needs to keep working and not interfere.

 

_ STANLEY BRIDGES _

_ Moria, you know that isn’t a fair question... _

 

“I knew it! I knew you would just run back to him again. I fucking knew it.”

 

_ MORIA JEFFERSON _

_ What’s so hard about it, Stan? _

 

“Of course you knew it, Roger. You’ve accused me of it every day. How do you think I feel, every time I’m late being accused of fucking my ex?”

 

_ STANLEY BRIDGES _

_ You and this book, they’re entirely different things to me. You’re… Well, I love you. _

 

“But you did it! God, I knew that you were still seeing him!”

 

_ MORIA JEFFERSON _

_ No, you love fucking me. You LOVE that damn novel. You spend so much time with it I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re jerking off over your damn typewriter. It gets more attention than me and I’m your damn girlfriend. _

 

“I wasn’t still seeing him! I did it ONCE and you practically asked me to, begging for our next hit and how else was I supposed to get it? You always do this. You always push away every time you think these things aren’t going your way. You’re like a fucking kid and… I… I can’t take this anymore. You think I’m cheating on you. Fine. I’ll go fucking cheat on you, you asshole!” Mark winces when he hears the door slam, but he doesn’t pull back from writing this time. He can’t and his fingers fly over the keys, possessed with the flow of the piece.

 

_ STANLEY BRIDGES _

_ Maybe because it’s the only thing I have left! The only thing that won’t leave me is my art. I need to have control over that at least, Moria. Art can’t lie to me. Art can’t pretend that she is waiting for me to notice her when in reality she is out every night making sure get noticed by everyone but me! It’s time we all stopped pretending. Stop pretending we didn’t all want to follow after Bobby, that we’re not scared as hell to spend another year trapped here. Stop pretending that we’re okay with Jack being sick. I need to stop pretending that you’re going to realize how wrong you are and come back to be with just me, and that Roger is over in the next room dying from the drugs May is feeding him. This novel is the last thing that I’ll have left when you finally leave me and when Roger dies and when Bobby and Collins just stop coming back. _

 

_ The truth of our relationship is that it’s falling apart. The truth of Roger’s drug use is that it’s killing him. The truth is this film is the only thing I have left to keep me going when I can see everyone in my life falling away. So it’s about time that we stopped pretending and I started to stand up to you, to him, to myself and change something. _

 

Mark yelps, typewriter falling off his lap when the knock on he door break into his concentration. “Yeah?” He asks, scrambling to get his typewriter back up and make sure no more keys have fallen off. He keeps his eyes on the old machine, readjusting the crumbled paper and checking it over again. With his eye on the typewriter, he can’t look up to see Roger pushing open the door.

 

He watches his friend out of the corner of his eyes, not looking up to him. He is too busy making sure his script is unharmed. “Hey…”

 

“Hey,” Mark mutter back, eyes screwed up in concentration. Just keep his head down, and even if the shadow of Roger is shifting through his room as he leans up against the doorframe, Mark can’t actually see him or his hollowed, sick face or marked-up arms.

 

“Look you….” Roger is starting to twitch. The only times him and April get into fights, those are when Roger is twitching. When he isn’t shooting up regularly, this is how he gets. “You have that money your mom sent you for your birthday, right?” Mark can see where this is going, he can see what is about to happen and all he has to do is lie and shake his head and that will be the end of that. Roger won’t get his money and won’t get his drugs and Mark will save him that much, at least. Even if Roger goes out and gets the money from somewhere else, at least Mark will be innocent of helping his friend. He wouldn’t be saving Roger, but at least he wouldn’t be encouraging this and pushing him closer off the edge. “Could I maybe borrow some?”

 

“Yeah.” Mark leans back, reaching for his drawer and pulling out what is left of their money. Food money. Living money. Drug money, because if Roger doesn’t get it from him he’ll just find another way and Mark doesn’t have it in him to fight with Roger over this. “This be enough?” And he just hands him what is left.

 

Roger doesn’t even smile when he takes the money. With how beaten up and dry his lips look, Mark is pretty sure that if he smiles he’d end up bleeding. “Thanks,” he mutters before turning and leaving Mark with his film.

 

*

 

Mark never really thought about that old saying, six feet under. It isn’t that he never heard it, but like ‘raining cats and dogs’ he just accepted it as a part of speech. He never really thought that the holes they dig to lower the body in would seem six feet deep. Dark and brown as the dark tumbles in after the coffin. Mark leans over the side, dropping his rose over the top as the mechanical rigs creak as they take the body down. The hole must really be six feet. It looks like it could swallow Mark whole, right down into the earth.

 

“Mark? Mark, come on…” Mark looks back to Maureen who is tugging at his jacket. “It’s cold out here.”

 

It’s the middle of December in New York city, of course it’s cold. Something about the open field of the graveyard makes it seem colder and even his jacket and Maureen pressed against him doesn’t make Mark any warmer. This is the first time she’s held onto him like this in a long time, and all it took was April killing herself.

 

“Wait,” he says, shaking his head when she tries to pull away. Collins has already left, walking a few of April’s friends back home. Benny couldn’t be bothered to show up, not with his business meeting, and even April’s dad walked out after looking down at the body of his little girl tucked away in her coffin. She looks peaceful, Mark thought. Like she did when she was high and curled up beside Roger. Like when they were happy, and even though she is dead she has more color in her cheeks now than she has these past few months. Everyone could look at her and tell that it was close to the end, but no one said anything. No one brought it up, so April took things into her own hands. April has always been a little aggressive, a little dramatic. She has always been the sort of girl that wouldn’t just sit around and wait for fate to catch up to her.

 

Still, when she was laying her coffin she looked peaceful. Like she was on heroin. Like she died high and will stay that way forever.

 

“Everyone else is gone,” Maureen points out, and she keeps tugging at Mark’s jacket to try and get him to turn away as these works lower April down into the hole. Everything April ever did was fast and fierce. Her and Roger’s fights to the sex afterwards, there was no bottling that up. You couldn’t even get that in a needle. But now she’s dead, and all of that really doesn’t matter. Now she is just the suicidal junkie girl they once knew.

 

She should have picked a better time. If she really wanted attention she would have waited until Collins wasn’t preparing to leave in January to MIT and Benny wasn’t about to move out. She would have waited until Maureen and Mark’s rocky relationship had settled down so that they were actually concerned with something other than themselves. Mostly, she would have given Roger time to go through withdrawal, for his friends to prepare him for that note she left behind because now no one has time to mourn. They all have something else to worry about.

 

“I promised Roger,” Mark mutters, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small pick. He hadn’t actually promised Roger. Roger hasn’t spoken up in two days expect to scream at night. Roger can’t even drag himself out of bed for his girlfriend’s funeral but if he could, Mark would know what he would want. He throws the guitar pick over the roses on top of the coffin. It’s a lame gesture coming from him, and it doesn’t mean anything to April who is on her way to becoming nothing but dirt and a bad memory.

  
  


Wrapping his arms around Maureen, they watch as the guys with the machines that go six feet into the ground pack up and move out. “You know, I never really liked her,” Maureen says, leaning her head against Mark’s shoulder.

 

The truth is that Roger was into drugs way before April, and Mark saw him back in high school and he knows his best friend has always been self-destructive. The truth is that the HIV test doesn’t say whose fault it is, and Mark knows that it’s just as likely to be Roger’s and it was April’s. But that doesn’t change the fact that Roger is the one back at the loft waiting on them and Roger is the one still alive while April chickened out without even saying goodbye. The truth doesn’t really matter anymore, and they are all too self-involved to put the blame on themselves. So it gets buried six feet under, with her.

 

“We should head back,” Mark says as he lets go of Maureen, and they are still holding hands as they turn and walk away from the grave. “Roger might need something.”

 

“Yeah,” Maureen says, rolling her eyes. “Heroin.”

 

Mark gives her a sideways look. “He needs our help.” April didn’t hurt too much, for all these reasons. She left his best friend behind, broken and sick, and Mark can’t make himself care right now that she’s dead. He has something else he needs to concentrate on, like getting Roger through this. He doesn’t know what he would do, though, if it were Roger they were walking away from right now. Maybe that wouldn’t hurt at all, either.

 

“Of course he does,” Maureen says, voice dripping with sarcasm as it usually does. “Because he was just asking for it yesterday, when you tried, right?”

 

Mark flinches, letting go of Maureen’s hand and they’re back to how they have been these last few months. Hardly touching at all. “He’s upset about-”

 

“Smack!” Maureen says without giving him time to reply. “He’s upset because he hasn’t had a hit in two days.”

 

“His girlfriend just died,” Mark points out without looking back at her as he walks off. In the background the crane is dumping dirt over April’s dead body, and they all know that April’s death is only part of it. They have their own lives to worry about, and she fades out of Mark’s mind pretty quickly with every step back towards the loft.

 

“You know that isn’t it,” Maureen says, and Mark can feel her shooting a nasty look at him even as she trails behind, trying not to trip over headstones in her heels. “He needs help, Mark, and not just some best friend trying to keep him safe.”

 

It feels like he’s hand this conversation at least a hundred times since they found that note, three days ago, and the body beside it. Since they knew that the way Roger has been thinning out, it isn’t just the heroin and they have to do something or Mark would be losing his friend way too quickly. “I am helping him.”

 

“You’re being selfish.”

 

Mark freezes for a second, turning around to look at his girlfriend, if she is even still that. “Excuse me? I’m being selfish for what? Trying to save my best friend. That’s just great coming from the girl that the whole world has to revolve around at all times!” It is supposed to hurt, just a little, because Mark knows what is coming, and he wants to hurt her before she starts in with him.

 

Maureen doesn’t look like she believes him at all. “I heard you and Collins talking about it. He’s right. Roger needs to be in rehab.”

 

“He doesn’t want rehab.” This is crazy. They can’t be standing out here in December why they’re coving up April’s grave, yelling over the sounds of the crane and the dirt hitting her coffin.

 

“It doesn’t matter if he wants it.” Maureen sighs, throwing her hands into the air. Overdramatic, even if the only ones around to see are Mark and a bunch of dead guys. “He’s DYING Mark, and you’re being selfish by giving him what he wants. You want to be the good best friend, fine. You want to replace April and give him what he wants instead of what you know is right, fine, but remember that April is currently dead and Roger isn’t doing much better.”

 

“He wants to stay-“

 

“Of course he’s wants to stay!” Maureen says, pushing herself up closer to Mark, practically shoving him back. “He’s a junkie and heroin makes him feel good and look at his life! He doesn’t want to be put away in some rehab centered where they’re going to make him actually deal with his problems. It’s Roger, for fuck sake, he wants to get high!”

 

It’s all too much. Mark’s life, it’s getting to be too much. He turns back around, heading away from April and Maureen and everything that is too honest, too blunt and in his face to deal with right now. “Fucking men!” Maureen yells at his back but Mark just keeps his eyes straight ahead, storming back to the loft. It isn’t selfish to want to keep Roger close for however much time he has left. What would Maureen really know about loving someone, anyway?

 

*

 

“I hate you every time you do this.”

 

Roger looks up from his beds. He’s curled up against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest, blankets soaked in sweat. He manages a weak glower before his head falls back to his chest, and Mark can hear something like muffled sobbing. That is the only reaction he gets, but it’s better than usual. He’s come down from the serious withdrawal, at least for a while. He isn’t shaking so hard anymore or crying out, doesn’t try and attract anyone who gets too close, blinding striking out against his nightmares. Seeing Roger hardly able to move, so thin and frail looking that it seems a gust of wind might shatter him, that’s an improvement.

 

“I told you,” Mark says, taking a step into the room. This time Roger doesn’t even look up, but Mark waits every time he takes a step closer to make sure that Roger isn’t going to jump up and shove him away. “Every time you make it that much harder on yourself.” Another step, and another until Mark is right at the bedside. He puts down the cold water he brought in with him and leans down to pick up the AZT from the floor, putting it back into the bottle. “You know, every time you shoot up against it-“

 

“I get it,” Roger mutters. Mark stops popping the cap on to listen to him. If he didn’t listen hard he wouldn’t have heard Roger speak up at all, his voice sounding like a dull and quiet growl. Mark can’t tell if it is from screaming for the last hour or if he just doesn’t have enough energy to push the sound out.

 

“You keep shooting up,” Mark points out as he sets the bottle on the table next to the cold glass of water. Not that he can get Roger to take them. In the last seven months, he’s gotten Roger to take maybe a week’s worth. He’s getting a little better at it, sometimes. When he is in one of these almost catatonic states, sometimes Mark can get him to take the pills. “You say you know better but-“

 

“Shut up,” Roger mutters, head not lifting up from his chest, hidden in his arms wrapped over his knees. Mark sighs and pushes himself up off the floor, sitting down onto Roger’s mattress. He moved him out of the room and into the living room, closer to the bathroom and the kitchen. He figured it’d be easier to keep an eye on him but sometimes Mark can’t take it anymore. Sometimes he doesn’t want to keep an eye on him, and he needs to get out. He just leaves the loft and he knows when he gets back Roger will be high but he can’t take it anymore. Even if Maureen hasn’t moved out yet, she doesn’t stay around long enough to look after Roger and it’s too much for Mark to handle alone anymore.

 

He needs some time away, Roger needs time alone to shoot up. That is just how it works.

 

“Look, Roger-“

 

“I said shut up.”

 

Mark sighs, rubbing his hands over his face as he waits for Roger to say more or shove him off the bed. Anything but just sit there, curled up against himself. He doesn’t move, though, not when he’s worn himself out on the hard part of the withdrawal. After that it is like all the life has been drained out of him. Like that time he saw April on the bathroom floor and didn’t move all day. This frozen, broken way that he is now. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” He waits to be told shut up, but Roger doesn’t seem to have the energy to yell at him again. “You need to get better.”

 

“Shouldn’t you be working on your film?” Mark frowns down at Roger. He hasn’t picked up his camera in a month but then Roger wouldn’t know that, he’s been too busy going between withdrawals and shooting up when Mark isn’t looking. Mark knows Roger could care less, he just wants Mark to leave him alone. It still seems like a weird thing for him to ask.

 

“I stopped writing scripts,” Mark confesses. His life has enough drama without his need to create more for film. “Look, Roger, we need to get you healthy.”

 

“Why?” Roger finally looks up, cheeks streaked with dirty tears that he tries to quickly rub away. “What’s the point of getting better? I’m going to die anyway.”

 

“I know, but-“

 

“I’ve lost April and the band and everything that means anything,” Roger says, ignoring Mark this time when he tries to speak up. “I’m never going to write music again, or be in love so what is the point of a few extra years?”

 

Mark looks down at his hands, picking at a loose thread in his shirt. It hurts that Roger doesn’t want to live any longer, and it hurts more that he seems to think he hasn’t got anything left to live for. There have been times when Mark could have just walked away and never come back to this damn loft. He could have left Roger with his drugs and let him die while Mark detached himself from all this. He found a reason to stay for Roger.

 

Apparently, he doesn’t matter.

 

“You don’t know that,” Mark mutters, tearing at the loose threads, needing something to distract his hands when he doesn’t have a camera to hide behind. Carefully he looks back to Roger, his head back between his legs, looking so thin and helpless and all Mark has been trying to do for him, that means nothing.

 

“I do,” Roger mutters and Mark gives up and leaves the loft for him.


	4. Jealousy & Drinking

Mark forgot how loud these places could get.

 

Don't be an ass, he thinks to himself as he hides out in the back of the dark club, scrunched up against a wall to keep safe from the crowd. He's here for Roger, not because of some driving need to lose his hearing. He shouldn't be acting like such an asshole, almost forcing Maureen to drag him out of the loft in the first place. Shouldn't it be Roger being forced out of the loft kicking and screaming? When did Mark become the recluse? Well, the loft recluse, anyway, disregarding any time spent behind his camera.

 

This is important to Roger. This means so much to Roger. This is Roger's gift to Mimi, what he promised he'd give her. This is somewhere Mark really doesn't want to be, standing in the back of a small local bar that smells like pot and beer, watching Roger set his guitar up on stage. No band to back him up, just a lonely front man and his fender.

 

It isn't exactly the best image, seeing your friend up on stage alone, spot light concentrating fully on him as he tunes and plugs everything into place, the crowd gathered at the stage, drinking and laughing and waiting. It seems wrong, to see him alone so quickly, but Mark knows that isn't quite true. He's singing for Mimi, about Mimi, thinking of her and still has her in some ways. Like Collins still has Angel, still visits her and talks with her and gets this look on his face when he remembers her. She is still there for him, like Mimi is still with Roger. It's just as real as Joanne and Maureen, holding each other at the bar as they order their drinks. Mark doesn't think he can take it.

 

Don't be an asshole, he thinks again, taking a deep breath as he goes to get a drink. Because alcohol will go so well with his current mood.

 

It isn't that he isn't happy for Roger. Fuck, it's his friend's first show onstage in... God, it feels like forever. Since before April's death, which seems to Mark to be where this whole mess began, and he can hardly even think of a time before that. Mark wants to be here for Roger and watch him perform again and it's worth more now than it ever was before when the money went to heroin. This show is purer. This show is for Mimi, and Roger needs this or else he might crash again. Like he did after he lost April.

 

Still... Mark looks down at his beer, frowning at it like somehow it can answer why he's in such a bad mood. Why he doesn't want to be here, out with his friends and the people that mean more to him than, well, than his own family. Looking for answers in alcoholic drinks is never a good idea. Mark should know better, but instead he just finishes the beer as quickly as he can.

 

"He looks hot like that," Maureen says next to him, snuggling into Joanne's arms as they watch Roger set up. Mark looks up at stage and Roger as he flutters around. He's got this wide-eyed look, brushing too much at his hair and jumping over wires. He's nervous. Mark's known him for years, and he can tell when he's nervous.

 

Not just because this is his first gig in a while, but because this is his first show in forever where he hadn't shot up before he'd gone on. Mark knows, because he watched him all day yesterday. Maybe he should feel bad about that, having to keep an eye on his friend because he didn't trust him enough not to slip back into old habits, but after Mimi's death, Roger seemed unpredictable and on edge. He'd go from his usual moodiness, sitting in his room staring at the wall without a word to radically excited about this show, unable to say anything that didn't relate to music or getting this gig so that he could sing for Mimi. Mark just had to be sure.

 

"I hope you mean because of the lights," Joanne says, smiling at Maureen as she gives her a gentle nudge, and Maureen laughs, leaning back into Joanne. They're like one fucking body with two heads and four arms and, well, one giant glob of girl.

 

Mark looks back to the new beer in his hand. He isn't that drunk, is he? That he just thought that?

 

Shaking his head, he starts on the next drink. This just seems like the obvious, easy thing to do. "I didn't mean like that," Maureen says, voice somehow clearer to Mark than everyone else around them. He is pretty sure that is more of an effect of being pathetic even two years after she broke up with him than the alcohol. "I mean, look at him. He looks good onstage."

 

Mark almost chokes on his beer, raising and eyebrow as he looks back to Maureen. Isn't she supposed to be a lesbian? And, yeah, Roger does look natural with a guitar in his hand and that worried smile on his face that makes you want to jump him, but Mark gets that feeling a lot anyway. The point is, isn't the whole her being gay thing why she left him? And now she is saying that Roger looks hot? He keeps staring, but she doesn't see him, too busy playing around with Joanne to notice him. Then it hits him, why he's in such a bad mood even when he should be supportive for his best friend, whose life is falling apart and who needs him right now when all Mark can do is be a brat and sulk in the background.

 

Mark is jealous.

 

He doesn't think this is a beer-induced serendipity, but in case it is he grabs another one. He doesn't want to lose the thought, and if it's right than he's probably going to need a few strong drinks. It makes sense though, that Mark is jealous. Not just of Roger, who seems to have found this great muse in Mimi that he can hold onto even now. Not just of Maureen, who finally found someone she can stay with, someone who pointedly isn't Mark. Just of everyone. Of all his friends, everyone who has someone to love and someone who stays around no matter what.

 

Fuck, he's even jealous of Benny and Muffy.

 

When did this get so bad? When did Mark seriously start to notice that he has no one? Not like Collins and Roger and Maureen and Benny have someone. Mark is just alone, slumped over the bar with a beer in hand. Or, more commonly, tracking through the streets with his camera, capturing everyone else's life as they spend it together.

 

Beer must make him especially morose and poetic, Mark thinks as these thoughts all flitter through his mind. So he downs another one, because, yeah, that will really help.

 

He's jolted out of all those thoughts when Maureen reaches over to tug at his shirt. "You coming?" She asks, and Mark just notices now that Roger is standing up at the microphone, and Maureen and Joanne seem to be walking up front to get a better look at him.

 

Mark glances to Roger, then back to his drink. "Yeah, in a second," he promises. Maureen actually looks worried, and maybe Mark should take that as a sign that he is in serious trouble, that Maureen can sincerely look worried about him. She doesn't say anything to him, and that should really tip him off. But he just keeps sulking over his beer as Maureen nods and walks away to join Joanne.

 

Just this one more, he thinks, and then he'll go up with Joanne and Maureen. He'll watch his best friend play and he'll cheer him on, and when he comes off stage Mark will tell him how Mimi would have loved it. He just needs one last beer, and he'll be able to pull that one off.

 

Roger's voice, dark and soft as it flows through the club, starts in over the static. Mark doesn't look over at him, keeping his eyes down on the bottle in his hand. It just seems like the easiest place to look as Roger pours his heart out. It's an over-used phrase, but it's the only way to describe what he's doing. Songs that he wrote for Mimi. Songs about her and love and sickness and all those things that compose his life. What else can you call that, but pouring your heart out?

 

Even though Roger tried to keep the songs from everyone until today, Mark already knows the damn lyrics. He had been there, taping the story. Of course he knows it when he hears it. About Mimi and the drugs, all the things Roger fought against to be with her. Yeah, he's already got that on film. He doesn't need Roger's voice to remind him what they've been through. Maybe it would make a nice soundtrack though, for the movie.

 

That last thought... That is what really tips Mark off that he's been drinking way too much.

 

Well, that and the sudden feeling that he's going to puke.

 

"Fuck." Pushing away from the bar, Mark stumbles out of his seat and rushes for the door. Or at least tries to, but everything is blurred around the edges and moving around way too much. Mark hasn't ever been much of a drinker, and lately it isn't like they could afford it. So maybe blowing some of Collins' money on five beers right in a row had been a shit plan.

 

Fuck, where the hell do they keep the exit and who put this fucking club on spin?

 

This isn't good, Mark's head is telling him and, yeah, that should be obvious by the way he can't quite step straight. He manages to get out of the club, though, stumbling out the door and heading straight into the alley. Despite the fact that he's in a dark alley, fingers scratching against the wall as he leans up, alcohol pushing back up from his stomach, he doesn't immediately think of how dangerous this is or how stupid he is for drinking so much. Enough that he's barely able to stand and is shaking as he throws up in a back alley. Hardly the signs of a good decision.

 

He thinks, fuck, he used all his money on beer. He can't afford to get back in the club to see Roger's last bit of the show. His roommate is going to kill him.

 

"Fuck!" That isn't for missing the show. That's for the knee that hits him in the back, sending Mark straight into the wall and shit. Someone is behind him, rifling through his pockets and saying... something. Mark can't hear. His vision blanks out for a moment and all the noise of New York fades to a dull thud.

 

That's his heart, beating in his ears. Vomit trickles down his chin and something else. Something warmer. Blood.

 

"... Money..." The words flitter in somehow, and Mark isn't even quite sure he's heard it. He's still pressed to the cold bricks, dizzy and trembling, unsure how he's keeping himself up except the guy that is holding him in place. Hand meant to hurt as they plunder through. "...fag... give..." Mark closes his eyes, trying to put it together. Blood loss and alcohol aren't helping.

 

"...fuck..." Blood in his mouth, down to his shirt. Still shaking, can't feel the hand the guy has pinned back, twisting his wrist hard. Then, again, he's slammed into the wall, and Mark breaks the haze that has settled over him as he screams out.

 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Do something. Fight back. Get in a punch at least. The knee moves away from his back and Mark falls straight to the ground. Hands still grope at his pockets, searching for a wallet that Mark knows he won't find. He's going to die, that flashes through his brain. He wants to hit back, only he can hardly move at all.

 

The world keeps spinning and going to black and over him the guy is growling, saying something that Mark can't hear. He opens his mouth and blood pours in and he starts to choke, body still rejecting the pure alcoholic contents in his stomach. Another punch to the gut and the blood spews everywhere as Mark coughs, rolls onto his side to get away. Fuck, he's broke. He wants to tell the guy but he can't move at all. He can't see, can't get his arms to work.

 

Fade to black, and the last thought Mark manages to have around the pain and panic is that, fuck, his mom was right about New York. It really would end up killing him.

 

*

 

"Are you sure?"

 

He has fingers. That's good. He can feel them twitching. For whatever reason, Mark thinks that this is a definite good thing. That he has fingers. That he can sort of twitch them. Just sort of.

 

"For the last time, I'm sure. He doesn't need a fucking doctor."

 

His hand. He can feel his whole hand. A kind of tingling, vague sort of ache and twisting pain, almost, but he can feel it at least. That is still good though, right? Right. It's better than not feeling it at all, which is something Mark vaguely remembers as being bad. So, good that he can feel it even if it hurts a little.

 

"Roger, think about this for a second. We don't even know what happened."

 

Voices. Talking about... Well, he doesn't know that yet and it doesn't seem as important as being able to feel his hand. But, he can hear them and if he listens close enough - Fuck, that stings like all fucking hell. Oh, shit, that needs to stop. God, what the hell is that and why is it doing that to his skull? Is that his head? Oh, God. It's his head. Fuck, make that stop. Nothing should feel that bad. It feels like his brain is trying to break out of his eyes. Why the hell does it hurt like that? Fuck. Is he dying? He better not be dying.

 

"He got mugged. It happens. We can take care of it."

 

Roger is going to be so pissed if he is dying.

 

"Rog, maybe if you-"

 

Roger. That's... Not Roger, but he's here. That makes Mark feel better some how, because he'd been worried about... Missing Roger? Missing his show, right? Why are his thoughts all jumbled like that? Fuck. Okay. Name? Mark. Age? 24. How many fingers? He's not holding up fingers. Well, maybe that's a good thing. How many beers did he have last night?

 

Oh, shit. Last night. The show and drinking and alleyway with the vomit and blood, unable to move or feel his hand and now he's... Back in bed?

 

"Shut up, Maureen. He doesn't need a goddamn doctor."

 

Mark is sick of lying back, listening to Roger, Joanne, and Maureen talk about someone he is pretty sure is him. He plans on sitting up, telling them all to shut the fuck up at least until the beating in his head goes down. Only when he starts to push himself up he realizes how fucked up his body feels at the moment.

 

He manages maybe an inch before groaning and falling back onto the bed. That is all it takes to get everyone's attention.

 

"Mark!" Mark can feel Maureen's hand across his forehead, her nails barely brushing at the skin and that always perfectly dramatic tone of hers. So even though he can't see her, he knows she is there, stroking his hair. "Mark, baby, are you okay?"

 

As far as stupid questions go, that one is up there. He feels like he's about to die from the way his brain is beating at his skull, and she goes and asks him that? "I have a headache," he explains, moaning again when his voice scratches at his throat. Fuck, even talking sort of hurts.

 

"Well," she says, tapping against his head. Why the fuck would she do that? "You did drink a whole lot."

 

He could always count on her, at least, to state the absolute obvious. "Also, I think I might be blind."

 

"You're not blind, you just have a hangover," Maureen says, and she still sounds like she's arguing with Roger. She shouldn't be screaming like that. Or maybe she isn't screaming, but it certainly rings out in Mark's head. "Can you go blind from drinking?" she asks Joanne, and Mark is pretty sure she's attempting a whisper but he can hear every little cell pulsing in his head, so he hears her loud and, well, as close to clear as anything can get right now.

 

"I said blind," he corrects, hand rubbing at his temple as he tries to open his eyes. Fuck, way too bright to do that. He hardly cracks them open and it's like the sun is burning out his pupils. "Not deaf, Maureen."

 

"You can't go blind from drinking," Joanne says, and at least she sounds sensible if not just as loud as everyone else. Do they have to shout like that? Mark is in pain and couldn't they shut the hell up for a while? "He hasn't opened his eyes yet."

 

"Tried that," Mark explains in as soft a tone as he can so he doesn't upset his head more. Honestly, it just sounds pathetic. "Didn't work."

 

He can feel Joanne and Maureen sitting beside him, but he can't find Roger. Not with his eyes closed, at least, and that is how he plans on staying for at least a while longer. Mark knows he is there, but he certainly isn't that close.

 

"What the hell was that?"

 

Okay, there he is and, fuck, could he try not yelling when Mark is in this much pain? The way his head is aching right now, Roger's low growl might as well be a blow horn in his ear. With a sort of groan-grunt mix, Mark pushes himself onto his elbows and - shit, fucking hell that burns - opens his eyes to look at Roger. He has to squint to try and fight back the light, and mostly Roger is just a blur, but he can almost sort of see him, pacing at the foot of the bed like mad.

 

"What?" Mark grumbles, voice sounding dangerously scratched up. It hurts, too, like the fucking light that is burning through his eyes. Fuck, that drinking thing had been a really nasty idea. Being thrown into a wall and beaten up probably hadn't helped.

 

"What the fuck were-"

 

"Leave him alone, Roger." That is Joanne, using her toughest lawyer voice and Mark imagines he can see her - that if he could see more than colors and hazy shapes - glaring at Roger. With his current vision, it's hard to tell. He does watch Roger stop pacing, though, standing still for a few seconds before marching back out of the room.

 

Maureen sighs, her hand stroking his hair as she pushes him back in bed. He's in enough pain that he doesn't try to argue, just lets her tuck him back in. "Ignore him, pookie. He's being an asshole."

 

Mark has the feeling he missed something while he was out, but neither Maureen nor Joanne seems apt to tell him, and Mark doesn't want to fuss about shit like that right now. He just wants to carve a hole in his skull and hope that helps. But because it's his best friend, Mark feels required to at least ask, "What's going on with Roger?"

 

"Oh, you know," Maureen says, and Mark has to close his eyes again. He can either sort of see, or else he can listen to her voice but doing both hurts way too much. "He's upset that you missed his show." Mark knows that is complete shit, but he can hardly think right now without feeling ready to vomit much less actually argue with Maureen over this, so he just accepts her answer. "I think we were all... surprised, you know? That kind of stuff, that isn't like you."

 

If Mark were conscious enough, he'd probably demand to know what is like him? The goofy best friend, the bad lover, the guy in the background with his camera? None of those guys can get drunk every now and then and sulk at their best friend's show. None of those guys can just be in one little relationship that doesn't end with the guy's girlfriend committing suicide or his own girlfriend becoming a lesbian? Mark has plenty of reasons to get drunk ever now and then, so what does that mean that it isn't like him?

 

The guy he is now is so alone that he can't even be with his friends without alcohol in the mix, or else he'll just end up standing in the back with nothing to say. Personally, Mark thinks as he tries to go to sleep and die for a while until the pain has settled down, he is fucking sick of being himself.

 

*

 

Mark is sick of being himself. That is the one thought that manages to stay in his aching head, haunting him a lot like that damn alcohol he drank way too much of. When he finally managed to crawl out of bed - and fuck that stings and shit, it hurts it hurts it, screw this... No, gotta pee enough to get up - even then it's in his mind. Eating away at some part of him, just to drive him insane maybe. Like it knows he had plenty to think about already, and then it comes up with something new just to really get under his skin.

 

He has plenty to deal without the new dose of self-hatred. He's got Roger to look after, Maureen to comfort when she gets into a fight with Joanne, Collins to call to make sure he's doing okay, his film to finish, his mom to ignore. There is just so much going on in his life, and it's no wonder he wants an escape. Still, he doesn't really have time.

 

So in the end, Mark really has no fucking clue how he ends up at this club.

 

It's loud. Of course it is loud. Some band is on stage screaming at him. They're not like Roger, whose guitar can get a little too noisy sometimes. They're actually yelling at the people, and the crowd around the stage seems to be enjoying it.

 

Mark should probably get out of here and get back to the real world, where random guys on the subway who smell like three week old fish yell at you. Not in some club where he is paying to be screamed at. Then again, he came all the way here. Made up lies about filming just so he could shed off a layer of himself. One thing that he never liked about himself is that he's never gone to get someone. Roger fell in his bed. Maureen came up to him. If Mark is so sick of being alone, he has to be the one to do something about it, damnit!

 

With some newfound resolve, he looks out over the dance floor to the crowd of people huddled around the stage. Just go and ask someone to dance or something. He can do that. Just that the band is so loud, and still screaming. He probably needs a drink to deal with that kind of music.

 

Turning around, Mark falls into one of the stools by the bar. Shit, this is just like two weeks ago. Is he really giving up so soon? He doesn't want to get drunk and end up puking in the back alley while getting the shit beat out of him. He wants to get laid. It's New York in the nineties and everyone is over sex and isolated and looking for someone to cling onto, right? So how hard can it be, finding someone as lonely as he is and convincing her to come back home with him? Roger must have done it a thousand times back when Mark sort of almost knew him in high school. He could pull it once.

 

Mark is slipping back into his private misery when he feels a light tap on his shoulder. Almost jumping, he looks up to see a cute girl with strawberry colored hair and a huge smile looming over him. "Hey there," she says in a voice that could probably crack glass. Or maybe Mark is just too use to Roger's low, soft sound and that's why high-pitched vocal chords on this chick make his eyes twitch. Still, it isn't like she isn't cute. A little skinny, a little too covered in make up, but cute.

 

Or, well.... Mark is beyond being picky. His last girlfriend is now dating a black lesbian lawyer. Anything is a step up from Maureen, right?

 

This cute girl sits next to him, batting her eyes, which appear to have a mountain of blue pasted on. It doesn't matter. Mark is determined to be with someone, even if they apparently spent more on one face full of make up than he did on food for the last year. This isn't about finding the perfect someone; Mark has given up on that high school type quest. This is just about being close to someone, about not being so alone and everything else he can look past. "Buy me a drink?"

 

"Oh, umm..." Mark frowns, fingers tapping against the bar as he tries to pick out the best way to say this. "I, uh... I don't really have any money on me." Well, he had money, but he planned on buying himself a beer, and that was about all he could afford.

 

In a flash the cute little smile on the girl's face is gone. She rolls her eyes, like he's done something inherently wrong in not having cash on him, and leaves. Just like that, without even another word. Mark frowns, watching her going and not caring enough to call her back. His standards are low, yeah, but not quite that low.

 

"Well, she's a bitch." Mark looks up, glancing a few seats down the bar where a young guy is sitting, beaming at him. He has that same smile that Roger use to have, the one where his lips wrinkle up the corner of his eyes, and that hint of mischief that Roger had picked up from April is already there. "So, you came to the bar, skipped the dancing and obviously want to get drunk, but you have no cash?"

 

"Oh, well," Mark is about to explain that he has enough for one beer, and that he had planned on dancing he just got a little freaked out by all the screaming. He doesn't get a chance when the guy calls over the bar tender, and just like that Mark has a beer in front of him. He looks down at it, a little shocked over what had happened. He isn't use to getting things from free. "You didn't..."

 

"It's fine," the guy says, still smiling as he moves down to bar and closer to Mark. "Always nice to have someone to drink with." Mark nods, taking a slow sip and looking over to this guy. He thinks he knows what is going on, but really why would anyone try and hit on him? Well, other than Maureen and Roger and time kind of showed how well those worked out.

 

"Look I..." Mark stops. First, he's going to seem like an asshole if he thinks this guy is hitting on him and he isn't, he's just being nice. On second thought, someone just randomly being nice in New York City seems about as likely to Mark as the guy actually trying to come onto him, so it's about an even chance of improbability.

 

If he is, though, if he's actually for whatever reason interested in Mark is he really going to turn this guy down? He was willing to go out with that girl a few minutes ago, and she looked like she was made of plastic. So he'll say no now just because the guy has a penis. It isn't like he's never gone there before. Hell, he distinctly remembers going there and liking it.

 

He just is so sick of having nothing but his film, and he doesn't get to be picky right now. Anyone as lonely as he is will do. Start the line, New York. He knows someone out there has to feel as pathetically isolated as he does, and if it happens to be this nice guy who stole Roger's old smile, than he'll take it.

 

"Don't worry about it. I'm Evan." The guy is still grinning, holding a hand out for Mark.

 

He takes it, moving closer. It's just a brush of contact, but it's a start. It's been forever since he's even touched someone other than his group of friends. "Mark."

"So," Evan says, letting go of Mark's hand after a long pause where either of them could move away and neither of them does. So maybe Evan is just as needy for someone as Mark is, and this makes him feel better somehow. Knowing he isn't the only one out there in desperate need of some contact. "You know," he mutters, head cocked to the side and his face has this serious sort of look on it. Like he's looking through Mark. "You have the coloring of someone who's drowned."

 

"What?" Fuck, please don't say that a serial murder is hitting on him. The scary thing is, Mark isn't even sure that matters at this point.

 

Evan at least looks horribly upset about the comment. "Nothing. Sorry. Bad joke from work. So, uh, you came to the bar without money," he repeats, quick to change subject. For some reason, that makes Mark feel a little better. "What are you doing here?"

 

"Umm..." Mark frowns and stares down at the bottle in his hand, not sure what he wants to say to Evan. Something clever that will get Evan to like him would be nice, but Mark just can't think that clearly with the smoke and the screaming from the band. So he goes with sincere instead. "I'm sick of being the only guy I know without someone, and I haven't had sex in about... two years, I think, and I'm desperate."

 

Mark gets the impression that he has some how managed to fuck up less than five minutes after meeting Evan. He's giving him this look, almost wide eyed and without a smile. He isn't backing up slowly either, so that could be a good sign. "Well..." His look breaks, and Evan laughs. Not as pleasant as Roger's voice, but it's relieving to hear. "That's a good goal."

 

"One drink doesn't usually make me so honest," Mark says, because that seemed to impress Evan just a little and maybe Mark can be witty for a little while longer before that crashes down around him. He can be like that in groups with his friends, goofy and fun and all. How is it so different using it to impress a guy? "What about you?"

 

"I'm usually a touchy drunk," Evan says with that warm smile of his. "And, well, I guess I came here because... It's a bar, and I need that."

 

"Just needed to get drunk?" Mark can understand that. It didn't end up so well for him the last time he tried, but he can understand it.

 

"Just needed to be touchy," Evan says with another laugh and a sort of careless shrug, as if conversation bordering on flirting comes so naturally to him. "You ever felt like that?"

 

Fuck, that is why Mark is here. He knew, in that intellectual way, that in this day and age with the technology and the movement and everything around them, everyone feels alienated just a little bit. Still, when all his friends seem to have someone - or had someone - Mark had been starting to feel like maybe it isn't a universal problem. Maybe it's just him. As horrible as it is, it feels fucking good to know that someone else is just as miserable.

 

"I get that," he says, nodding and taking another sip of his beer. He moves closer and Evan moves closer, and it just works out. "Yeah, definitely get that."


	5. Blindness & Bondage

Evan turns out to be just as lonely as Mark and clever and apparently a fairly well-known artist. Well, he doesn't say that but he takes Mark to his gallery and tells him about the class he teaches at NYU and it sounds like he's done more with his art than Mark ever has. It also makes that comment about his coloring seem a little more normal somehow.

 

There is a lot to like about Evan, though. Like how he's quick and witty, but not too much of a show off. Well, maybe a little but only when Roger is around and with the way Roger is glaring at him all the time, Mark forgives Evan for over compensating. Evan knows when to leave Mark alone, too. They both have this art, this thing that they love to do, so Evan understands that Mark's film takes precedence over him, and he doesn't bother him about it. He lets him retreat when he needs to, doesn't bother him about closing himself off, because he does the same thing when he paints. So Mark is still allowed to be a recluse when he needs to be, like when Roger looks extra sick or some small memory reminds him of Mimi or Angel. Times like those he needs his camera more than he needs Evan. There are other good things, too, like the contact that he gives and the fact that Evan isn't about to like pussy like the last few people he's dated. This is more reassuring to Mark than it probably should be.

 

The fact that Evan has a wide collection of sex toys he's collected through the years only makes it that much better.

 

"Shit." Mark winces, fingers curling around the leather binds that Evan has his wrists wrapped in, keeping his hands and legs spread about and against the bed posts. "Not so loud, Evan. Roger's probably trying to sleep."

 

Evan sighs, shifting around on Mark's hips. He's really should be used to this by now, Mark's never ending concern for Roger, but Mark can still manage to get him annoyed when they're in bed and he brings it up. Okay, after all those years of listening to Roger and April fucking in the next room, maybe Mark should be a little less careful now that the roles are reversed. Still, he knows Roger doesn't like Evan so much. In fact, he kind of glowers every time Evan is in the room, so Mark is trying his best not to rub it in his face or anything.

 

"Mark," he purrs, leaning down to nip at Mark's neck. Hot mouth working over the skin, sucking at Mark's pulse until his heart beat speeds up. "It's not fun, unless I can make you nice and loud."

 

"Evan..." It's supposed to be more of a protest than a moan, but it doesn't come out right. It probably isn't helping his argument when Mark twist his head back, mewling as Evan's teeth scrap down to the base of his throat, licking the taste from his skin. This is why he likes Evan, the way his tongue and hands move down Mark's chest, nails raking down his stomach and teeth against him and, fuck, just all this contact and heat building between them as their bodies move against one another.

 

It's amazing, having that sort of contact back again. Even if it's a shallow thing and they both know it, at least something is there. At least Mark isn't quite as alone.

 

Besides, when Evan is licking at his stomach like that, tongue dipping into his navel and dark eyes staring up at him, smirking as Mark moans... Well, fuck why it's happening so long as he doesn't stop any time soon. "Better," he mutters, nipping at his skin and Mark moans again, pushing up against Evan and whimpering when there is nothing there. Evan knows he hates needing. Probably why he decided to start tying Mark up.

 

"Oh, fuck." Mark tenses for a moment, the cold press of something against his skin sending jolts up through his stomach. He twists to look down the best he can, seeing Evan's cocky smile as he rubs the small toy up against Mark. It's cold and wet, vibrations running through it and up Mark's skin as Evan presses it gently into him.

 

He leans down, tongue brushing over Mark's cock and, oh God... He moans again, head falling back and body pressing up for more. "You've never?" Evan mutters, his words against Mark's too hot skin as he presses the toy into him.

 

Mark has, but he doesn't want to break the mood by explaining when and why he let Maureen. He just whines, forcing himself to relax and, fuck, that feels good. Different than fingers or Evan, slick and cold as it presses inside him and against him. "Jesus!" Mark's nails dig into the leather and he arches up into the toy and mouth around him, whole body pushing off the bed with a needy cry.

 

Evan pulls back with a confident smirk, having won that round and Mark just whines at him until he leans back down, moaning as he swallows around Mark's cock. He couldn't give a fuck anymore about being quiet, so long as Evan doesn't stop pushing the vibrator against that spot, lips stretched over the head of his erection and tongue doing that... that thing right there and, oh, God. That is making his head ring.

 

No, wait. Fuck, that isn't in his head.

 

"Just a second," Ethan mutters, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand as he stands up, crawling off the side of the bed and ignoring the way Mark is whining for him. He digs around his jean pockets until he pulls his cell phone out, flipping it open and answering with a quick, "Hello?"

 

Fuck. The toy is still pressed in Mark, moving against him and, Jesus, Evan, now is not a good time. He has Mark tied to the bed and hard and can't he just get off the phone and do something about this? He whines, trying to get his attention back and twisting in the leather binds to makes his point.

 

"Yeah, yeah... I..." Evan reaches back, patting Mark on the stomach without turning around to look back at him. Not the best response. "I can't hear you. No, shit. Wait, I'll have to-"

 

"Evan!" Mark decides to forgo the whining and just nudge him in the side while calling for him. That should work.

 

Evan does turn around, giving Mark a quick kiss without ever letting go of the phone. "Be good for me, huh?" He asks as he reaches down to pull up his pants. The exact opposite of what Mark had been hoping for. "Wait here. I have to go outside to get signal."

 

"Evan!" Mark hisses, wiggling around in the binds. He doesn't really have a choice to do anything but stay here, and fuck this is just cruel.

 

Evan smiles, saying something to whoever the fuck is calling him (Mark swears if he finds out, he'll kill him) before leaning back over Mark. "Think of it like a game," he says with that stupid smile that Mark is so attracted to, sliding the vibrator further into him and, oh God. He moans, and Evan smirks confidently as he covers the phone. "Be right back," he mutters before turning and walking out.

 

Shit.

 

The door closes, and Mark is stuck in bed. He waits and waits and, fuck, he is no good at this. Closing his eyes, he draws in a deep breath. Tries to calm himself down and why did Evan leave that thing inside him? Is he trying to kill him? With a small whimper he rolls his hips back, and all that manages to do is frustrate him more. Next time, he's trying Evan up and then going for an hour-long hike.

 

At least it feels like an hour until he hears the knock on his door. Thank - Wait, Evan wouldn't knock. "Mark?"

 

That isn't Evan. Shit. "What?" Mark barks, not really in too good of a mood at the moment. Maybe he should have just told Roger to fuck off, though, because he seems to take that as permission to open the door before Mark can yell at him to stop.

 

It's a sort of awkwardness with Roger staring, and Mark realizing that he's tied to the bed and can't exactly do anything to cover himself or hide. The only thing that could really be worse than this is if someone in his family had walked through the door. Even then, they couldn't manage to give him a look like the one that Roger is giving him right now.

 

Again. Shit.

 

"What the hell?" Roger marches over to the bed, and Mark can see right what he's going for. At least this time he can try and stop him.

 

With a whine he tries to jerk away, which doesn't work considering the leather straps around his wrists. The ones that Roger is trying to untie. "Stop! Roger.. Stop that!"

 

That actually works. Roger stops trying to undo the binds, frowning as he looks down at Mark who is attempting to struggle away. "He left you tied-"

 

"He didn't leave," Mark points out. Well, that isn't exactly true. "He'll... He'll be coming back, just leave it alone." He just wants Roger to leave. He is in no shape for this. He's blushing, which he hates but he can't really help at the moment, and he's blushing because here is his best friend standing over him while Mark is tied spread eagle to the bed, vibrator pushed inside him and very obviously liking this. Fuck, this could not possibly get any worse.

 

Only it sort of does, when Roger just stands there looming over him. Clearly not leaving. Dear God, why isn't he leaving? He just stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at Mark. There is this dark look in his eyes. Mark has seen that look before and he doesn't want to think about what it means. He wants the world to open up and swallow him whole, really, but it doesn't move. No one moves at all.

 

"What the hell is this?" Roger growls, his voice a dark snarl that is really hard to ignore. That raw possessiveness in Roger's voice that Mark doesn't want to think about. He's seen it when guys grab for April, when he told Roger about Benny, and when Maureen stepped into his life, when Roger found out about Mimi and Benny's affair. Roger really doesn't deal well when other people touch his things, his guitar and the people in his life. Still, Mark would rather not think about this while he's waiting for Evan. "You just let him tie you up and abandon you?"

 

"He didn't abandon me," Mark says, repressing the urge to roll his eyes at Roger's dramatics. Okay, so he did leave Mark tied to the bed, but it is probably a very important phone call. It better be. "He'll be back in a while."

 

"And what happens if he doesn't?" Roger asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed and glowering at Mark, looking like he's been the one whose almost sort of boyfriend ran out on them in the middle of sex.

 

"Then I scream like hell." Mark honestly hadn't had a plan for if Evan hadn't come back. He didn't need one, did he? Evan would come back. Roger is just being a brat. "Why did you come barging in anyway?"

 

"I heard Evan leave," Roger says, turning away damn quickly and shrugging it off. Trying to look casual about it, like Mark hasn't known him for years. "I wanted to talk?"

 

"Yeah, well, don't know if you noticed or not, but now might be a bad time." The biting probably isn't the best thing to do right now, but Mark is humiliated and can't hide himself any other way. He needs something to protect himself from the way Roger is looking at him, from the way he's barking at Mark like he's done the wrong thing just by being with someone.

 

"I think this is the perfect time," Roger says, turning just a bit and setting a hand on the leather that is binding Mark in place. "At least this time you can't go running off to your camera or Evan when I try talking to you."

 

"I don't go running off," Mark mutters. Roger's hand runs down his arm, fingers ghosting over the skin before landing against his chest. Mark's skin is already hot, over-sensitive to the touch, and the rough calluses of Roger's fingers make him shiver. "I don't, Roger. I've just..."

 

"Been ignoring me," Roger accuses his voice hard and nearly a growl. It makes Mark wonder if he knows what he's doing. The way he is stroking along his collarbone. He might not notice, but Mark does. Feels every single twitch his fingers make against his skin and, God, now is not a good time for Roger to be touching him. Having this huge teenage crush on Roger had been confusing enough when Roger went from unattainable jerk off material to best friend. Mark doesn't need this, these small touches and strokes to set his mind off again into that spin of uncertainty over how much he should let Roger mean to him, and how normal it is to want a friend so much. "You have been."

 

"Not..." It sounds lame and incomplete. Roger's hand slides lower, brushing along his stomach and, fuck, so close that Mark has to bite down on his lip to keep quiet. What he should do is speak up or move, throw Roger's hand off him but... but he can't make himself do that. It's like he's sixteen again, lying in bed with a drunk Roger, and his hormones feel just as heated now as they had back then. Like he can say no to that.

 

Roger keeps unconsciously running his hand across Mark's skin, pushing Mark close to insanity or else moaning and breaking the spell as he talks. "You do. Ever since... Since I got back, you've been all about your film or 'escaping' from your old self or this whole Evan thing." Mark would say something to defend himself, if he could find the nerve to talk with Roger's fingers gliding over his hips. "I liked who you were," Roger admits. "Why do you have to change?"

 

That probably really would have meant something for Mark to hear, if Roger's hand hadn't casually brushed lower and, "Fuck, Roger, stop..."

 

"Stop..." Roger trails off, and Mark has his eyes closed, trying to catch his breath, but he imagines that Roger's figured out about where his hand is and-

 

"Oh, fuck," Mark whimpers, body arching off the bed and into Roger's hand as it wraps around him. He opens his eyes, trying to figure out what is going on because that definitely isn't pulling away. Roger looks back at him, dark eyes and a wicked smile that Mark hasn't seen in a long time. It doesn't make talking or breathing any easier. Roger's fingers curl around him, and he just barely manages a gasp, hips rocking up to rub against his palm.

 

"Jesus, Roger," Mark moans, eyes fluttering closed again. Rough fingers brush against his chin, over his lips and Mark opens his mouth to them. Before he can lick at the pads of his fingers, warm lips are pressed against his and he's forgotten what Roger could kiss like. It sounds lame, even in his own head and Mark would never tell Roger that unless he wanted to be teased about it for years but, God it's true, he really loves kissing Roger.

 

Not quite as much as he loves what Roger is doing with his hands, though. The kind of thing that has Mark moaning into his mouth, eagerly pressing his hips up against his hand as he kneads down against him. His other hand slides beneath him, wrapping around the toy and pressing it right there. Mark's groans over the loud mechanical sound as Roger thrusts it against Mark, meeting the roll of his hips back down against Roger's hand.

 

Roger swallows every sound Mark makes, body moving against his. Rocking together easily on the bed with Mark trembling beneath him. Fuck, Roger's hands are just like he remembers them. Like he's been bringing up in his head for a while when he's alone, and all those times where he's slipped and thought of Roger are making it too easy to just fall into this now. Bucking against Roger without trying to stop him, deepening the kiss with a needy whimper as he pushes his body to rub up to him.

 

When Roger pulls back from the kiss, Mark whines out, eyes fluttering open to half glare at Roger for stopping. Roger smiles back down, not smiles but smirks and Mark wants to bite that look off his lips, if Roger would just get close enough again.

 

"Jesus." That isn't him. Mark jerks up, or tries to when he's attached to the bed. He doesn't need to go too far, because Roger jumps enough for both of them, stumbling off the mattress and to the floor.

 

Both of them just sort of watch Evan for a while, and he stares back, eyes scanning the room and waiting. Mark isn't even sure what he's looking for, but his heart is trying to break out of his chest with the way it is pounding and, shit, this cannot be good. Mark hardly has time to taking the vibrator out and tossing it as he yanks the covers up. All very smooth and horrible and, shit, this just shouldn't be happening to him. Wasn't two years without sex enough of a punishment for anything he ever did?

 

"Look..." It's Roger that speaks up, pushing himself off the floor and glancing between Mark and Evan before he really starts to talk. "Look, we were just... Messing around."

 

"Well, yeah," Evan says, eyes not leaving Mark. "Clearly." And then Evan does his thing, were out of nowhere it seems, he'll smile like whatever has just happened is nothing but a joke. Usually, it works, but right now it just makes Mark's already spinning out of control type thoughts that much worse. "Hey, that's cool."

 

He walks over to the bed, unsnapping Mark's ankles from the post and Mark's stomach falls. Is he going to just take his things and leave? Right now, truth be told, Mark would rather be with Roger but he doesn't want to see Evan leaving pissed. That really isn't what Mark meant to happen. Hell, he didn't mean for the whole Roger thing to happen at all.

 

Evan never makes it to undoing his hands, though. He smiles at Mark, hand resting against his stomach as he sits down next to him. "So..." He says, glancing from Mark back to Roger. "You staying?"

 

Oh, fuck, Evan has no idea what he's asking for right then. "Evan, he-"

 

"I'm sick," Roger explains, but he isn't exactly leaving like Mark expected. Just standing there watching them and it makes Mark's stomach turn, the way his dark eyes almost feel like they're burning when they turn to him.

 

Evan shrugs this off as casually as he seems to take everything. "I've dated a positive guy," he points out, not looking away from Roger. "I know how to stay safe and be careful."

 

"Look," Mark sighs, trying to save Roger from explaining how he and Mark just don't want to get into that. "That isn't it, E-"

 

"Okay." What the fuck? Mark almost gets whiplash from how quick he turns his head to stare up at Roger. Did he say yes? Did he know how hard this is about to get for Mark, if he actually has Roger in bed with him and willing. Fuck, there goes any sleep he might get, and yet Mark can't find himself too disappointed.

 

The binds on his wrists fall away and Evan scoops Mark into his arms, kissing along his neck, and Mark almost ignores the hot lips against his skin. Just keeps staring at Roger, waiting for some kind of explanation. "I have a bag of things, right there," Evan mutters, nodding over the side of the bed, and Roger looks down, smiling at the open duffle bag. "If you're interested."

 

Roger laughs, just dark and soft enough that Mark shivers in Evan's arms. His mouth ghosting over his skin, teeth against his ear, that doesn't exactly help keep Mark calm. "Sounds like fun," Roger says, and Mark can see the old him so clearly. Before April and Mimi, that is what he gets a glimpse of as Roger pulls the bag onto his lap, smirking at Mark as he digs around.

 

"Evan," Mark mutters as he turns around, not sure what he's about to say. It doesn't matter. Evan's lips pressed against his, warm and moving to open Mark's mouth beneath the kiss. His hands, not as rough as Roger's, slide across his chest, nails brushing over the skin. Mark gasps, pressing harder and closer to Evan as his hands ghost over his stomach to his hips, gently pushing his legs apart. Teasing the skin with light brushes as Mark arches back, stretched out over the bed and over Evan.

 

Smooth plastic presses against him and of course Mark jumps, almost hitting Evan in the chin as he jolts up, staring wide eyed down at Roger. God, Roger between his legs and smirking up at him, all dark eyes and that wicked smile. It makes it hard to swallow for a while as Mark's heart thuds in his chest.

 

That looks flickers for a moment as Mark stares at him, and he can see the uncertain part of Roger. The part that he tried to hide before, and that Mark has seen a lot of in the last two years. The lost Roger that isn't sure what he's doing, and Mark panics when he sees him and remembers this isn't just fucking around. This is Roger.

 

"Look," Mark says, reaching down to push Roger away. Show that he doesn't have to do this. Mark doesn't want the old Roger back. Not really. He just wants Roger how he is, however he is, and if Roger doesn't feel comfortable then Mark needs to stop thinking with his dick and stop this.

 

"That okay?" Roger asks without moving away, letting Mark's hand run through his hair but not moving back an inch. He leans up instead, nipping at Mark's wrist as it glides through the thick blonde curls.

 

"You don't-" Mark pauses, gasping as Roger moves, pressing another bead inside him. Warm fingers and cold plastic pressing against his skin. Roger shouldn't be allowed to do that when Mark is trying to do the right thing.

 

"Don't," Roger says, leaning up to kiss Mark's chest. Fuck, that's unfair. Mark doesn't want to stop. Not with Roger lying over him, sliding those beads inside him and Evan warm and solid behind him, hands running over his chest. Mark's eyes flutter closed and he tries to clear his head and get it wrapped around some thought other than - God, Roger feels so good and, yes, more of that.

 

Lips brush over his and then press hard, and Mark moans into the kiss. Fuck it. Roger is a big boy. He can take care of himself. It isn't like he doesn't know what he's doing. His hands ghost along Mark's skin, pressing him further back into Evan as he bites along his collar and, oh God yes, he definitely knows what he's doing.

 

The second that Evan pulls back, lips brushing down Mark's neck and biting into his shoulder, Roger's mouth is crashing down against his. Mark wants to say something, joke around and tease Roger about being so needy, but he doesn't even have time to breathe. It's all lips and touch and the two bodies moving against him as Roger presses into his chest and Evan is leaning over Mark, licking at Roger's ear. Roger pulls back from the kiss, moaning as he leans into Evan's mouth. Fine with Mark if he just gets to watch Roger, or better yet lick at the hollow of his throat and feel those small sounds he's making vibrating through him.

 

"Jesus..." Mark arches back again, and Evan grunts as he's almost pushed off the bed. Not that Mark cares. His hands fall to the sheets, curling into them into the mattress as he rolls his hips up. Fuck, again. His body tenses and quivers as Roger plays with the sing of beads, gently pulling it out one by one. And, yeah, Mark pretty much forgets about everything else except - Oh, God, yes. That.

 

Roger's hot breath sprawls out across his chest as he leans down, licking and nipping gently at Mark's skin. With a whimper Mark forces his eyes almost open, looking down at Roger as his lips ghost down and - "Fuck, Roger." Mark chokes on a moan, body jerking up against him as he tugs at the sting again, shaking hard as he feels that hot breath over his stomach.

 

Roger looks up, watching Mark and he can tell his smirking even as he groans. Evan does manage a smile at Mark as he kisses down Roger's spine, and Mark whines to himself as he fights to keep his head up. Watching Roger, hips rocking back eagerly against Evan. He looks up at Mark again, nipping at his navel before his lips wrap around his cock and, "Oh, God," Mark moans, falls back on the bed before he can catch himself. Arching up into Roger's mouth with a small whimper.

 

And everything else doesn't matter because Roger's tongue is sliding along his skin and checks hollowed around his cock as he grabs onto Mark's hips with one rough hand, pinning him back. Leaving it so all Mark can do is whimper and moan, twisting under that hand as he fights for more. Just a little more because he's already this close to screaming. Does scream when Roger pulls on the beads again, body twisting up from the bed as the sound comes out breathless and choked.

 

He can feel Roger laughing, a dark sound around his cock before he pulls up, leaving Mark to whine because, no, don't stop yet. With a groan he pushes himself up, trying to glower down at Roger and he must look too out of it, because Roger just chuckles at him again, leaning up to kiss him. That settles Mark down pretty quickly as Roger lets him wrap his arms around his shoulders, pulling him down for a hard, possessive kiss. The kind that leaves lips bruised and mouths aching as they tear back.

 

The kind that leaves Roger all dark eyed and breathless and staring at Mark like he's lost in a haze, licking his lips as his eyes go from his eyes to Mark's mouth. Mark didn't even know he could kiss like that.

 

"Just a second," Roger mutters, and he kisses Mark again. Softer now, leaving a tingle in his lips as he turns back, shrugging Evan off and going towards the nightstand. Mark watches him for a minute before Evan's lips are against his ear, hot tongue around his skin and Mark moans, nuzzling back, turning to bite at his neck, moaning around the skin as Evan teases his ear.

 

All the while watching Roger as he takes out a condom, shaking fingers barely able to tear through the package and slips it on himself. That same uncertainty that made Mark so quick to try and back out earlier just makes him want to jump Roger now. In fairness, just about anything would make him want that at this point, and nothing is about to stop this.

 

When Roger moves towards him, Mark keeps his hands sliding down Evan's chest but his whole attention goes to Roger and that nervous smile he flashes Mark as he wraps his arms around his waist, moving against him.

 

One hand goes to Roger's shoulders, nails a little too rough against his skin. Roger winces, pulling back sharply. "You-?"

 

"Yeah," Mark says before Roger can even finish, pushing back against him. Roger nods, arms tightening as he lies over Mark. Eyes closed as he nuzzles into his shoulder, body pressing up to him and, fuck. Mark bites on his lip, trying not to make a sound. Not wanting to get Roger nervous but, fuck that feels perfect.

 

Evan's hand on his cock, kneading down against him, breaks his concentration and Mark moans. Body arching back, pushing himself down against Roger and into his shoulder he hears Roger gasp. Good because Roger needs to move faster already. Mark isn't breakable. He's been doing this almost every night with Evan for two weeks.

 

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and rocks back, against Roger and up into Evan's hand. He wraps his own fingers around Evan, stroking as hard as he can. It's enough that Evan moans into his ear, soft and breathless as he rolls his hips up.

 

Roger picks up the hint. His hands around Mark could leave bruises, and Mark doesn't even whimper. Just lets Roger hold onto him as he starts to move, slow and gently as if finding his pace, and Mark's hand slows down with him, letting Roger lead.

 

Evan doesn't like this too much. "Fuck," he mutters, looking up and watching Roger for a moment before growling, a nice dark sound that makes Mark shiver. "Just fuck him already," he bites, and Mark laughs. Would laugh if he weren't already breathless, and Roger didn't smile at that before slamming his hips up against Mark's. This time he does cry out. Letting the whole building know what they're doing as he pushes back into Roger and Evan and- Oh God, oh God, oh God.

 

"Roger," Mark moans, hand tightening around Evan's cock as he wraps his legs around Roger's hips, pushing as close as he can. "Roger..." Again and again and again like a chant until he's choking on the name, shaking hard as he twists off the bed with a breathless scream.

 

*

 

"Where's Evan?"

 

That isn't the first thing Mark thinks when he wakes up, and maybe he should feel guilty about that but he doesn't. The first thing he thinks is how warm this is as he cuddles back into Roger. Or lets Roger cuddle into him, since it's Roger who is clinging to Mark while they sleep. Then he actually opens his eyes, staring down at the messy blonde hair and cute pout Roger is wearing in his sleep that make him look like he's twelve. Oh, and the way he's curled up around Mark. That picture is like a wet dream, and Mark definitely doesn't overlook that.

 

He runs a hand through Roger's hair, stroking down his spine slowly as Roger begins to stir and he thinks about last night. Mark closes his eyes and swallows at that thought. Roger's hands and mouth and, well, the other stuff. Dear God, it's like he's still a teenager the way he's thinking about Roger. Then again, Mark's always been stuck as a teenager when it comes to wanting Roger. It's stupid and immature, but how many guys can honestly say that they're not stupid and immature when it comes to sex and lust and all of those things. Mark is still led around by his cock, but at least he has enough control that he didn't sleep with Roger in over two years. That has to earn him something.

 

Maybe, "stupidest move ever". Yeah.

 

With a small moan, Roger starts to stretch and wake up and of course Mark watches every little twitch of his muscles as he rolls his shoulders back and arches up. Mark smiles down at him, hand still in his hair as Roger slowly opens his eyes. He looks back at Mark, a content grin pulling at his lips. Mark just beams back. It's been a while since he'd seen Roger look honestly so happy to see him.

 

Only then does it hit him that someone from last night is missing. Mark turns to look behind him and there is nothing but empty bed, and then rolls back and looks over Roger. Also cold and unoccupied. "Where's Evan?" He asks as he settles back under the warm sheets against Roger. He obviously isn't about to get up to find him. It's too comfortable here with Roger to just get up and go.

 

Roger shrugs, moaning softly as he falls back onto the bed, almost melting after the quick stretch. "Don't know," he mutters, eyes falling closed again. Mark just snorts as he watches Roger yawn. Wake up for a few minutes stretching and then right back to sleep.

 

"I'll make coffee," Mark says, knowing that if he doesn't move Roger won't get up all day, and while lying here forever sounds like a good plan, Mark isn't as good as Roger at staying put for so long. He needs to be working on something.

 

Roger groans a bit, cuddling back into the bed as he nods. "Alright," he mutters, opening his eyes just a bit as he leans up. Mark doesn't really expect it, but when Roger kisses him he doesn't waste a second before pushing closer to him, opening his mouth to Roger's and, yes, they both have morning breath that could kill but who cares? Sometimes you have to take the morning breath to get to the kiss. It's going to be worth it, if you can.

 

"Oh. My. God."

 

It isn't exactly graceful, the way Mark falls off of bed and lands on his ass on the cold floor with a tangle of sheets around him. At that moment, Mark couldn't care if he looks graceful. "Maureen!" Shit, his voice should not be that high pitched and what the hell is she doing standing in his bedroom door anyway? Doesn't anyone knock anymore?

 

Maureen stands there, gaping at the two of them like she's just caught her parents going at it. No, then she probably wouldn't be staring like that. So hard that Mark can feel his skin burning under her eyes. And all he can do is stare back, jaw dropped and eyes so wide it would have been funny as hell if Maureen hadn't just seen him naked in bed with Roger.

 

"Maureen," Mark says again once he finds his voice, a little calmer now but still way too high pitched. He starts to crawl back up to his feet, gathering the blankets around his waist. Like she didn't already know what is there. "It-"

 

"Don't," Maureen says, holding a hand out to stop him. She can do drama even when in shock. "Don't. Look, I just threw up in my mouth, so I have to go brush my teeth. I'll... leave you two to it."

 

She turns on her heels, hair bouncing out behind her as she marches from the crime scene like some kind of scorned lover. The sort of thing only Maureen can really get away with.

 

Shit. She's going to tell Joanne.

 

Without looking at Roger, Mark grabs some pants and a shirt, throwing them on as quickly as he can and running after her. "Maureen!" He shouts down the stairs, almost flying across them in his rush to catch up with her and... He isn't sure what he is going to do when he actually catches her. It isn't like he can stop her from telling anyone. He's just chasing her because it's the only thing he can do right now. It is that or go back to Roger and face that. "Maureen!"

 

He finally hits the bottom of the building, panting and flushed and, fuck, he's in really bad shape. There she is, standing at the steps, tapping her boot against the sidewalk, clearly waiting on him to catch up. Now she has to wait for him to catch his breath, and Maureen seems to find this time while Mark can't breathe a perfect moment to start in on him. "You're sleeping with Roger." There might be an excuse for why Mark and Roger were in bed, naked, and kissing that didn't involve them fucking last night, but Mark really can't think of any. Not that Maureen is letting him talk yet. "I can't believe you! You're sleeping with your best friend. ROGER for God's sake. He's... fragile and... and... A guy."

 

There is a lot wrong with Maureen being surprised who Mark sleeps with when she used to sleep around with anyone who would so much as look at her just to feel better about herself. Mark manages to keep that comment to himself, but only because he's still gasping for air.

 

"I can't believe you actually fucked him!" Maureen shouts, then pauses, taking a nice deep breath. "You used a condom, right?"

 

"Yes," Mark says, finally able to get his voice working. "Of course we were safe, Maureen. I-"

 

"Good," Maureen interrupts. "Good because you... you are not allowed to get sick," she says, poking Mark hard in the chest. "You can't die, you hear me? Fuck whoever you want but you have to be here for m... You can't die."

 

Wincing a bit, Mark rubs his chest where she had pushed him back. "I know, Maureen," he assures her, and all those old boyfriend emotions comes back when he sees her ready to cry for him. He reaches for her, trying to wrap an arm around her shoulder, comfort her some. Maureen just pulls back. "And don't think I'm jealous of Roger," she adds quickly. "Because you love him."

 

"You know I still love you," Mark promises before he really thinks over what Maureen says. Love Roger? Well, yeah, he always has because they're best friends and he takes care of Roger and Roger looks out for him, it's just what best friends do. So of course he loves -

 

Oh. Fuck.

 

"Right." Maureen nods, rubbing a hand across her cheeks. "I just don't want to see you sick. Mark... You can't. You have to, you know, be here."

 

"I will," Mark promises again, but now his thoughts aren't on Maureen or anything she is saying. He's just a little distracted.

 

Shit, does he really?

 

"Right," Maureen says again, and she reaches for Mark, pulling hi into a hug that could probably kill him if she held it long enough. "Be careful, okay pookie?"

 

"Yeah," Mark mutters, still out of it even after Maureen lets go and walks away. It takes a long time to trail back up to the loft in the state he is in, and when he manages to get back up there he just collapses onto the couch without a word.

 

Roger pads out of the bathroom wearing his plaid pants. He falls down next to Mark. They still don't stay anything. Not when Roger moves closer or lies down, head resting in Mark's lap. They just stay silent for a while, as Mark thinks and Roger watches and waits.

 

"So, that's it," Mark says, chewing over his lip. He runs a hand softly through Roger's hair, trying to comfort his best friend with the calm strokes even though his own thoughts are anything but peaceful. "We're best friends who love each other and sometimes sleep together."

 

He can feel Roger go still beneath his hand as he thinks this over. Mark would swear he can actually feel Roger's thoughts right now, humming around in his skull. Maybe just because they're Mark's thoughts, too, tracking their relationship over time. Lust and then best friends and then closer than family and now this, it's finally starting to give way to something indescribable. Something just them.

 

Slowly, the minutes tick by as Roger and Mark think through everything that has happened to them, who they were and who they have become and how much of that depends on the other person. It takes a while, but finally Roger starts to move again, as if he'd stopped breathing altogether for a while there. "We're idiots, aren't we?"

 

"Only sometimes," Mark promises, smiling down at Roger as he wraps his arms around Mark's neck and pulls Mark down for a kiss.


End file.
